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BUDDY  BALLADS 


BY    BERTON    BRALEY 

BUDDY  BALLADS 

IN  CAMP  AND  TRENCH 

A  BANJO   AT  ARMAGEDDON 

THINGS  AS   THEY  ARE 

SONGS  OF  THE  WORKADAY  WORLD 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Buddy  Ballads 

Songs  of  the  A.  E.  F. 

by 
Berton  Braky 

Author  of  "A  Banjo  at  Armageddon/*  ** Things 
as  They  Are,"  etc,  etc. 


•■•■A\..WOv^M\f: 


New   York 
George  H,  Doran  Company 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

LESLIE    W.    QUIRK 

M.  T.  D.,    A.  E.  F. 
An  American  Soldier 

This  book  of  verse 

about  American  Soldiers 

is  Dedicated 


440543 


MUCH  of  the  verse  m  this  volume  has 
appeared  in  the  Popular  Magazine, 
Collier's  Weekly,  Life,  The  Woman's  World, 
The  New  York  World,  Everybody's  Maga- 
zine, Judge,  and  The  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
and  acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  editors 
and  publishers  of  these  journals  for  permis- 
sion to  use  the  verse  in  book  form. 


CONTENTS 


Page 

True  Music    ......••  13 

Some  Community 15 

Altered 16 

S.  O.  S 18 

The  Bombproof er 21 

The  Battle  of  Paris 23 

The  Late  Arrival  .        .        .        .        ,        .        •  25 

In  Hospital 27 

The  M.P 29 

A.W.O.L 31 

For  Service 33 

Limberfingers 35 

Convoy 317 

Night  at  the  Front 39 

His  Detail 41 

"The  Amateurs" 43 

Mud 46 

Aerial  Adventurers        ..,•••  48 

The  Student  Aviator 49 

Futures 51 

Archie 54 

Tribute 56 

The  Little  Guy 58 

The  Army  Doctor 60 

Frenchy 62 

The  Doughboy 64 

The  Runner 67 

Anzacs •  69 

The  Shavetail 72 

Tommy 74 

Engineers *  76 

The  Smokes •  78 

The  Regular •79 

liK] 


CONTENTS 


Pag© 

The  Marines 8i 

The  Yid  Battalion 83 

"Buddy" 85 

"Son  Fairy  Ann" 87 

Knowledge      .        . 89 

Fed  Up 91 

The  Hidden  Things 93 

Ambition 95 

The  Lost  Buddy 96 

The  Fighting  Edge 98 

"111  Tell  the  World" 100 

Wonderment 102 

The  Lesson 104 

The  Question 107 

The  Two  Crosses 109 

The  Big  Advance iii 

Speculation 113 

Pride 115 

The  Return iz6 


I«l 


BUDDY  BALLADS 


BUDDY   BALLADS 

1'  ]  ,i  i' 


»       »  .  J*  '     J  »  s,     a    »  , 


TRUE  MUSIC 

THESE  boys  have  won  to  glory 
In  battle  everywhere. 
Tremendous  is  their  story 
And  yet  the  bard's  despair; 
For  though  their  deeds  astounding 
Thrill  all  your  heart  and  brain, 
They'd  jeer  the  minstrel  sounding 
A  fine  heroic  strain. 


They  speak  of  war's  endeavor 
When  men  are  mowed  like  wheat. 
Of  things  that  live  forever. 
In  slang  of  field  and  street ; 
Seek  you  for  tales  of  duties 

Where  trenches  run  with  blood. 
They  grin,  and  talk  of  "cooties" 
Of  "army  chow"  and  mud. 

What  though  their  fame  hereafter 

Shall  gleam  in  living  fire? 
The  singer  courts  their  laughter 

Unless  he  strikes  his  lyre 
In  accents  syncopated 

And  makes  the  cat-gut  thrum 
To  simple  music,  freighted 

With  tunes  that  they  can  hum. 
[13] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


•  '-'TRUE  MUSIC  (pontinued) 
.{'i :  [j:  vi  •  ;   1 ;  So,  if,  thair  songs  lack  splendor 

'  *  * Of  deeds  that  echo  far 

It  is  because  they  render 

Our  soldiers  as  they  are, 
But  if  you  care  to  hear  it 
The  faith  they  will  not  own- 
The  true  heroic  spirit 
Is  in  the  undertone! 


[i4l 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


SOME  COMMUNITY 

THERE'S  a  bunch  of  sores  on  my  poor 
left  arm 
Which  has  swelled  like  a  country  hilly. 
For  I'm  filled  chock  full  with  a  husky  swarm 

Of  anti-disease  bacilli. 
I'm  doped  with  germs  of  the  well-known  grippe 

And  my  system  is  vaccinated 
With  bugs  of  smallpox,  typhoid  and  pip; 
I'm  excessively  populated. 

When  time  is  slack  on  the  doctors'  hands 

With  a  vaccine  point  they  nick  me. 
Or  a  hypo  filled  with  a  dozen  brands 

Of  bugs  is  used  to  prick  me. 
If  the  census  bureau  should  try  to  count 

The  germs  in  my  tissues  lurking 
Before  they'd  total  the  whole  amount 

They'd  perish  from  overworking. 

I  thought  when  I  joined  with  the  U.  S.  A. 

And  gave  up  my  life  civilian, 
I'd  be  just  one  in  the  mighty  fray 

Instead  of  which  I'm  a  trillion. 
My  muscles  ache  and  my  arm  is  sore 

So  that  nary  disease  can  harm  me, 
And  I'm  sailing  now  for  a  foreign  shore 

Each  drop  of  my  blood  an  army ! 
[15] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


ALTERED 

YOU  wouldn't  know  your  Percy  now. 
There  is  tan  upon  his  snow-white 
brow. 
When  he  came  he  was  a  sissy 
And  his  ways  were  very  prissy 
But  he's  undergone  a  change  somehow ; 
He  was  really  quite  a  model 
Of  a  perfect  molly-coddle 
But  you  wouldn't  know  your  Percy  now. 

You  wouldn't  know  your  Percy  now. 

At  the  first  he  scorned  the  army  chow. 
He  was  used  to  dainty  dishes 
Cooked  according  to  his  wishes 

But  we  took  him  on  a  hike—- and  wow ! 
You  should  see  him  fill  his  mess-kit 
With  the  food  to  swell  his  weskit. 

No,  you  wouldn't  know  your  Percy  now. 

You  wouldn't  know  your  Percy  now. 

He  was  one  to  whom  the  swells  cow-tow 
Now  he  pals  with  Mike  the  baker. 
And  with  Tim  the  boiler-maker 

And  with  Jack  who  sailed  a  garbage  scow; 
What  the  army  made  him  see  was 
They  were  better  men  than  he  was 

And  you  wouldn't  know  your  Percy  now. 
[16] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


ALTERED  (continued) 

You  wouldn't  know  your  Percy  now. 

His  chest  was  thirty-two,  I  vow. 
Now  it  bulges  like  a  barrel 
And  he  cleaned  up  Pat  O'Farrel 

In  a  recent  little  friendly  row; 

For  at  last  he's  joined  the  crowd  of 
Husky  chaps  worth  being  proud  of 

And  you  wouldn't  know  your  Percy  now ! 


[17] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


SOS. 

YES,  when  we  joined  the  army  we  were  put  in  Olive 
Drab 
But  now  our  service  uniforms  depend  on  what  we 
do, 
Sometimes  a  cobbler's  apron  is  the  garment  that  we 
grab. 
The  white  coat  of  a  baker  or  a  fireman's  dingy  blue ; 
Our  looks  won't  make  you  proud  of  us  for  there's  a 
motley  crowd  of  us 
Who  keep  things  moving  forward  to  the  first-line 
fighting  guys. 
The  chow  and  clothes  by  tons  for  them,  the  powder 
and  the  guns  for  them, 
For  we're  the  rummy  outfit  known  as  "Service  of 
Supplies." 

Up  at  the  Front  they  say,  "Oh,  yes. 

It's  pretty  soft  for  the  S.O.S." 

And  I  s'pose  they're  right,  for  all  we  fight 

Is  weather,  and  time,  and  such; 
Laying  the  thousands  of  tracks  or  more 
Where  there  was  nothing  but  swamp  before. 

And  being  told  "That  ain't  much." 
For  all  we  hear  in  our  strain  and  stress 

Is,  "Pretty  soft  for  the  S.O.S." 
[i8] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


S.O.S.  (continued) 

Our  C.O.s  only  stick  to  work  for  eighteen  hours  a  day 
And  all  they  ever  ask  of  us  is  just  about  the  same, 
We  do  a  job  like  Panama  to  while  the  time  away 

Erect  ten  miles  of  building  as  an  idle  sort  of  game ; 
With  docks  and  much  machinery  we  decorate  the 
scenery, 
Assemble  locomotives  at  the  rate  of  five  an  hour. 
Excuses  cannot  go  with  us  and  sheer  results  must 
show  with  us. 
For  we  supply  the  doughboys  with  their  hardest 
hitting  power. 

But  still  they  say  at  the  Front,  "Oh,  yes. 
It's  pretty  soft  for  the  S.O.S." 

And  p'raps  it's  true,  for  all  we  do 

Is  make  a  new  map  of  France, 
Juggle  with  freight  by  the  cubic  mile 
And  fit  two  million  of  men  in  style. 

To  move  when  the  word's  "Advance !" 
Cinch?    Why  sure,  it's  a  pipe,  I  guess. 
Soft,  oh  soft,  for  the  S.O.S. 

We  drive  the  spiles  for  jetties  and  we  build  a  dozen 
quays. 
We  bake  the  bread  of  armies  and  we  mend  their 
shirts  and  shoes. 
We  yank  out  all  the  cargoes  of  the  ships  from  overseas 
And  we  send  'em  up  on  trucks  and  trains  for  fight- 
ing men  to  use. 
We  have  our  bunks  and  creep  in  'em  when  we  have 
time  to  sleep  in  'em, 
The  Gothas  come  and  bomb  us  now  and  then  before 
we  rise, 

[19] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


S.O.S.  (continued) 

We  do  our  job  and  sweat  for  it  and  all  we  ever  get 
for  it 
Is  knocks  for  "seeking  safety  in  the  Service  of  Sup- 
plies." 

For  everywhere  that  we  go  I  guess 

We  hear,  "It's  soft  for  the  S.O.S/' 

So  we  grin  and  bear,  but  you  bet  we  care 
When  they  sneer  at  the  service  crew. 

For  we  had  our  job  and  we  didn't  shirk 

But  did  our  best  with  our  daily  work 
And  that's  all  a  man  gang  can  do. 

But  the  only  credit  we  get  is,  "Yes, 

It's  pretty  soft  for  the  S.O.S." 


[ao] 


BUDDY  BALLADS 


THE  BOMBPROOFER 

SOFT?    Say,  listen,  you  with  the  golden  stripe 
Showin'  a  piece  of  flyin'  shrapnel  hit  you. 
Me,  I'm  talkin',  got  a  few  words  to  pipe 

Though  if  I  done  the  way  I  feel,  I'd  hit  you ; 
Soft,  I've  had  it — 'twasn't  no  fault  of  mine 

It  was  for  soldier's  work  I  joined  this  army. 
Not  to  be  anchored,  miles  from  the  battle  line. 
Where  there  is  nothin*  comes  along  to  harm  me. 

Orders  is  orders,  yours  for  a  trench. 

Mine  to  stick  here  'cause  I  parleyed  the  French, 

I  didn't  want  it,  but  that  was  my  stunt. 

Me,  who  had  dreamed  about  life  at  the  front ! 

Soft?    Say,  Buddy,  maybe  you  think  it's  fun 

When  I  return,  with  fellers  that's  been  in  battle. 
Meet  my  folks  an*  tell  'em  that  all  I  done 

Was  stayin*  here,  interpretin*  Frenchies*  prattle; 
Ask  for  transfer?    I've  tried  every  way  on  earth. 

Told  my  Captain,  "I  wanted  to  fight  in  France,  sir. 
Not  to  linger,  fiUin'  a  bomb  proof  berth !" 

"This  is  the  place  you're  needed,"  was  my  answer. 

Orders  is  orders ;  yours  to  the  spot 
Where  all  the  shells  an'  the  gas  make  it  hot. 
Mine  to  be  doin'  a  job  that  is  tame 
Wishin'  to  hell  I  was  playin'  the  game! 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  BOMBPROOFER  (continued) 

Soft  is  right;  but  not  what  I  came  here  for. 

Me  that  was  sick  of  things  I  was  doin'  daily. 
Me,  expectin'  a  different  life  in  war, 

Me,  who,  seekin'  for  thrills,  enlisted  gaily. 
Soft,  you  said  it.    I  sleep  in  a  comfy  bed 

Dreamin'  of  war,  wishin*  that  I  was  in  it. 
Soft  for  me,  who'd  rather  be  up  there,  dead. 

Than  in  this  job,  hatin*  it  every  minute. 

Orders  is  orders — ^you  got  your  chance 
Glory  an'  hardship  of  service  in  France, 
I've  et  my  heart  out  with  envyin'  you. 
See  the  point.  Buddy,  all  right  then,  I'm 
through ! 


tM] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PARIS 

I  COMES  in  right  straight  from  the  trenches 
An',  pipin*  what's  round  me  to  see, 
I  meets  an*  American  soldier 

Who's  dressed  up  for  afternoon  tea ; 
I  says  to  him,  "Buddy,  I'm  askin* 

What  duty  they've  picked  you  out  for? 
You're  dolled  up,  by  heck,  but  your  face  looks  a 
wreck, 
Say,  what  have  you  done  in  the  war?" 

"I  fought  in  the  Battle  of  Paris 

For  eighteen  long  months,"  he  replies, 
"Repellin'  the  spells  of  the  mademoiselles 

That's  buzzin'  around  here  like  flies ; 
My  right  arm's  worn  out  from  salutin' 

These  shavetails  an*  captings,  by  gosh; 
I  fought  in  the  Battle  of  Paris, 

It's  harder  than  fightin'  the  Boche!" 

He  gives  a  sad  smile  an'  he  mutters, 

"You've  had  a  tough  time  up  your  way. 
But  you  didn't  face  regulations 

That's  changed  twenty  times  every  day; 
You  didn't  get  ten  francs  subsistence 

Where  chow  alone  costs  twenty  odd. 
An*  M.P.s  just  flock  growlin'  'pass,*  every  block. 

Along  o*  your  whole  promenade. 
[23I 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PARIS  (continued) 
"I  fought  in  the  Battle  of  Paris 

For  glory  I  hadn't  a  chance, 
I  drove  a  side-car  for  a  Louie  whose  bar 

Was  won  by  the  way  he  could  dance; 
IVe  three  golden  stripes  for  my  service 

I've  never  packed  helmet  or  gun, 
But— fight  in  the  Battle  of  Paris 

An'  see  how  you  like  it,  old  son." 

Well  me,  I  just  looks  at  that  feller 

An'  thinks  what  the  poor  boob's  been  through, 
'An'  says  to  him,  "Bud,  I've  seen  danger  an'  blood. 

But  I  ain't  no  braver  than  you. 
You've  fought  in  the  Battle  of  Paris 

An'  sure  show  the  wear  an'  the  tear. 
An'  just  so  you'll  know  how  you  stand  with  ms, 
Bo, 

I'll  slip  you  my  old  Croix  de  Guerre !" 


[«4] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  LATE  ARRIVAL 
(Who  found  it  "fini"  when  he  came). 

1FEEL  just  like  a  kid  who's  schemed  an*  planned 
For  joinin'  with  the  circus  in  some  town. 
Lured  by  the  gilded  wagons  an'  the  band. 

An*  who  arrives,  an*  finds  the  canvas  down. 
The  seats  piled  up,  the  cages  locked  an*  tight. 

The  troupe  still  there,  but  with  no  place  to  go, 
An*,  in  the  dim  dawn's  cold  an*  pallid  light. 
The  sheriff  in  possession  of  the  show! 

The  circusmen  may  come  around  an'  say, 

"Young  feller,  this  here  game  is  on  the  punk, 
You  get  hard  work,  bum  grub,  no  chanct  to  play, 

An*  half  the  time  the  ground  is  where  you  bunk ; 
You  gotta  fight  with  roughnecks  everywhere. 

You  have  no  home  an*  mighty  little  coin. 
Take  it  from  us,  kid,  you're  in  luck  for  fair 

To  have  the  show  blow  up  before  you  join." 

They  may  be  right,  but  that  young  kid  will  feel. 

Sorry  the  outfit  went  upon  the  shelf. 
An*  wish,  in  spite  of  what  the  wise  ones  spiel 

He*d  had  a  chanct  to  try  the  thing  himself. 
No  matter  how  or  where  he  may  exist. 

An'  whether  he  is  poor  or  has  the  cash, 
He*ll  always  think  of  things  that  he  has  missed 

By  comin*  when  the  show  has  went  to  smash. 

[35] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  LATE  ARRIVAL  (continued) 

An*  that's  the  way  with  me  about  this  war. 

You  guys  that's  tried  it  claim  the  graft  was  bum, 
But  none  the  less  it's  what  I  came  here  for, 

An'  now  I've  missed  it,  well,  I'm  sort  of  glum ; 
You  say  I'm  lucky,  landin'  when  I  did. 

Perhaps  you're  right,  I  guess  you  ought  to  know. 
But  all  my  life  I'll  be  just  like  that  kid 

Who  came  too  late  an'  found — a  busted  show ! 


I26] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


IN  HOSPITAL 

NURSE,  here  is  another  brave  hero  who  wants  to 
go  back  to  the  front. 
He's  wounded  in  seventeen  places  from  puUin'  some 

kind  of  a  stunt 
Out  there  where  the  gas  is  the  thickest  an*  bullets  an* 

shells  fill  the  air. 
An*  now,  lyin*  soft  in  a  hospital  bed,  he's  longin'  to 

hurry  back  there! 
You  say  there  ain't  any  such  soldier?    I  guess  it  must 

be  you  ain't  seen 
How  thousands  of  wounded  is  talkin' — accordin*  to 

this  magazine — 
Of  runnin*  right  back  to  the  trenches  the  minute  they 

find  they  are  well. 
An*  leavin*  these  hospital  quarters  to  step  in  the  mid- 
dle of  hell! 

But  you  know  an'  I  know  they're  lyin',  you  bet. 
They  toss  out  that  bunk  for  a  fresh  cigarette. 
We're  willin'  to  go  when  they  order  us  back 
But  no  one  is  achin'  to  risk  a  new  crack. 
This  "just-let-me-at-'em-again"  stuff  they  pull 
Is  nothin'  but  bull,  Nurse,  just  nothin'  but  bull! 

Go  back  to  the  rats  an*  the  cooties,  the  cold  an*  tht 

rain  an*  the  mud. 
The  whiz-bangs,  the  H.E.s  an'  shrapnel,  the  gas  an* 

the  stink  an'  the  blood? 

[27] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


IN  HOSPITAL  (continued) 

We  do  it,  of  course,  it's  our  duty,  an*  part  of  the  job 

we  have  got. 
But  that  ain't  no  sign  we're  enthusin'  or  cheerin'  a 

hell  of  a  lot. 
For  we've  had  our  taste  of  the  business,  an*  we  know 

the  glory  of  war. 
An'  take  it  from  us,  little  sister,  it*s  nothin*  we're 

hankerin'  for; 
A  hospital's  comfy  an*  pleasant,  the  front  is  unhealthy 

an'  rough. 
An*  when  a  guy  says  that  he  wants  to  go  back,  he's 

throwin*  some  kind  of  a  bluff. 
The  fact  is  we  go  when  we're  ordered,  it's  something 

we  came  here  to  do. 
But  Gosh,  Nurse,  you  know  how  we  hate  it,  an*  Gosh, 

we'll  be  glad  when  we're  through! 

They're  stallin*,  just  stallin',  the  guys  who  assert. 
They  ache  to  go  back  to  the  smells  an*  the  dirt. 
They're  talkin*  for  glory,  not  knowin',  poor  tykes, 
Tain't  glory  for  no  one  to  do  what  he  likes ; 
But  when  you  go  back,  an'  go  back  with  a  grin 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  you  dread  it  like  sin. 
That's  bein*  a  soldier,  a  guy  who  don't  pull 
No  sign  of  the  bull.  Nurse,  no  sign  of  the  bull ! 


r««i 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  M.  P. 

NOBODY  loves  the  M.  P. 
Gosh,  but  we're  misunderstood, 

Though  it's  a  fact 

We  always  act 
Just  for  the  soldier's  own  good. 
Shield  him  an'  keep  him  from  harm 

Watch  over  him  like  a  father; 
But,  does  he  treat  us  the  same  as  a  son. 
Show  us  he's  grateful  for  all  that  we  done. 

Thank  us,  with  smiles,  for  our  bother? 
Not  on  your  life,  he's  as  sore  as  can  be. 

Nobody  loves  the  M.  P. 


When  a  man's  quartered  in  town 
Where  his  temptations  are  big. 

We  keep  him  straight 

Early  an*  late. 
Sheltered  from  sin— in  the  brig! 
He'd  be  forgettin'  his  pass 

If  we  weren't  there  to  remind  him; 
But,  does  he  show  that  he's  pleased  with  our  care? 
No,  all  he  does  is  to  grumble  an'  swear. 

Thankless  an'  grouchy  we  find  him, 
Cussin*  ourselves  an'  our  whole  pedigree, 

Nobody  loves  the  M.  P. 
[29] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  M.  P.  (continued) 

Soldier  in  line  is  the  same. 
Though  we  do  things  for  the  best^ 

Helpin*  him  fight 

By  directin*  him  right. 
He  merely  calls  us  a  pest ; 
When  we  are  kindly,  but  firm, 

Givin*  him  lessons  in  duty, 
How  does  he  take  it?    He'll  grunt  an*  he'll  grouse 
Sayin*,  between  an  M.  P.  an'  a  louse, 

He'd  rather  live  with  the  cootie ! 
Sure  it  ain't  right,  but  you've  got  to  agree 

Nobody  loves  the  M.  P. 

When  I  am  done  with  my  bit 
Here  on  the  earth,  an*  I  fly 

Up  where  St.  Pete  has  the  doorkeeper's  seat 

He'll  look  me  straight  in  the  eye. 
Pipe  my  brassard  an*  my  hat. 

Then  he'll  remark,  in  a  minute, 
"Buddy,  I'm  sorry,  but  there's  two  or  three 
Doughboys  up  here,  an*  this  place  wouldn't  be 

Heaven  for  them,  with  you  in  it; 
That'll  be  hell  for  you,  sure,  but  you  see. 

Nobody  loves  an  M.  P.!" 


l3o| 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


A.  W.  O.  L. 

AW.  O.  L.— yes.  Bud,  that's  me! 
•    Six — months — up— front;   some — long — ^hard — 
spell 
Couldn't — get — ^no — leave,  so — you — can — see 
Why— I— just— went  A.  W.  O.  L. 

As  long  as  there  was  fightin'  I  didn't  ask  to  go, 

I  wasn't  gonna  be  a  yellow  pup. 
If  other  guys  could  stand  it.  You  bet  I  wouldn't  show 

That  any  kind  of  game  could  do  me  up. 
I  slept  in  rain  an'  drizzle  an'  I  et  my  meals  from  tin. 
An*  if  I  felt  like  blubberin*  I'd  set  my  teeth  an'  grin ; 
But  when  we  got  to  billets  an*  it  looked  as  if  we'd  stay. 
An*  leave  was  plumb  denied  me,  why  I  simply  went 
away. 

My  clothes  an*  my  features  was  muddy 
But  under  the  mud  was  a  smile. 

For  after  my  laborin*,  Buddy, 
I  thought  I'd  just  play  for  awhile. 

I  beat  it  on  the  railway  an'  when  the  guard  came  by 
I  muttered  "ne  comprend"  to  all  he  said. 

An*  so  I  came  to  Paris,  to  Paris,  Bud,  an*  I 
Have  done  my  best  to  paint  the  city  red ; 

I've    played    aroimd    regardless,    I*ve    bought    the 
chickens  wine 

[31] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


A.  W.  O.  L.  (continued) 

I've  Stood  on  cafe  tables  an'  sang  "The  World  is 
i  Mine," 

At  last  the  M.  P/s  got  me  an*  they  put  me  in  the  coop. 
But  when  I  think  of  all  my  fun,  why  I  don't  give  a 
whoop ! 

I  beat  it  from  camp  in  a  hurry 
An*  now  I  must  pay  for  the  crime. 

But  though  I  catch  hell,  I  should  worry. 
For  IVc  had  one  hell  of  a  time ! 

A.  W.  O.  L.,  yes.  Bud,  that's — ^me. 

Six — months — up — front,   some — ^long — hard — spell, 
L^eave — or — no — leave — I've — ^had — ^my — spree, 

I'm— glad— I— went  A.  W.  O.  L, 


[32] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


FOR  SERVICE 

SNUB-NOSED  and  short  as  to  wheelbase,  spidery- 
like  as  to  frame 
Known  as  the  little  "tin  Lizzie,"  doing  its  work  just 

the  same. 
Right  on  the  job  when  it's  needed,  eager  for  any  old 

stunt 
Dodging  the  shells  and  the  shell-holes,  bumping  along 

to  the  front; 
Ambulance    carrying    blesses,    camion    loaded    with 

chow. 
Rattling  along  like  a  messkit,  but  always  arriving, 

somehow. 
Some  little  soldier,   the   Flivver,  tough  little,  rough 

little  car. 
Fit  for  the  hardest  of  service,  ready  whenever  you 

are! 


Hang  a  set  of  medals  on  the  Flivver, 

(It'll  shake  'em  off,  but  never  mind) 
It  was  always  certain  to  deliver 

Service  of  the  necessary  kind. 
It  set  your  teeth  arattle  as  it  jounced  you  into 
battle 

It  joggled  up  your  stomach  and  your  liver. 
It  wasn't  any  beauty  but  it  sure  was  there  for  duty 

So  hang  a  bunch  of  medals  on  the  Flivver. 
[33] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


FOR  SERVICE  (continued) 

Big  cars  are  better  to  look  at,  but,  when  they're  mired 

in  the  muck 
Hark  how  they  honk  for  assistance,  calling  a  Tin 

Lizzie  truck, 
Funny  and  battered  and  noisy,  watch  how  the  Flivver 

makes  good. 
There  is  a  peach  of  an  engine  under  that  little  tin 

hood; 
Nothing  but  shell-fire  can  stop  it,  and  I  have  seen,  now 

and  then. 
How,  when  it's  half  shot  to  pieces,  it'll  start  going 

again. 
Say,  if  they  there  weren't  quite  so  many,  causing  the 

chickens  to  scoot 
When  I  caught  sight  of  a  Flivver,  I'd  bring  my  hand 

to  salute. 

Hang  a  set  of  medals  on  the  Flivver 

D.  S.  C.  and  also  Croix  de  Guerre, 
You  can  count  upon  it  to  deliver 

All  the  goods  its  built  for,  anywhere. 
Wherever  it  may  take  you  it'll  bounce  you,  it'll 
shake  you. 

Till  your  body  and  your  nerves  are  all  aquiver. 
But  you  have  the  fun  of  knowing  that  you'll  get 
where  you  are  going, 

So  hang  a  set  of  medals  on  the  Flivver! 


[34I 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


LIMBERFINGERS 

HE  wasn't  so  good  with  a  rifle,  he  couldn't  throw 
hand  grenades  much 
And  when  in  a  fight,  though  his  nerve  was  all  right, 
he  got  in  the  other  men's  way; 
But  put  him  before  a  piano,  believe  me,  the  kid  had 
a  touch 
He  knew  every  note  that  had  ever  been  wrote,  oh. 
Buddy,  that  soldier  could  play. 
He'd  make  you  feel  classical  music  way  down  to  the 
tip  of  your  spine; 
He'd  make  your  blood  thrill  and  the  heart  of  you 
fill  with  songs  and  with  marches  of  war 
Or  set  you  to  swinging  with  rag  time  that  bubbled  and 
tingled  like  wine^ — 
Then  sudden,  you'd  find  that  with  tears  you  was 
blind,  you  didn't  know  why  or  what  for. 


He'd  find   an   old  battered   piano,   somewhere   in   a 
ruined  chateau 
With  half  the  strings  broke  and  the  keyboard  a 
joke  and  both  of  the  pedals  napoo 
But  if  all  the  white  keys  was  missing,  he'd  play  on 
the  black  ones,  and  so 
He'd  give  us  an  air  we  could  whistle  to  there,  and 
say,  but  it  cheered  us  beaucoup. 
[35] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


LIMBERFINGERS  (continued) 

For  some  guys  is  best  in  the  trenches,  and  some  guys 
is  best  down  at  Tours 
But  he  did  his  bit  with  each  key  that  he  hit,  his 
fingers  was  magical  things 
That  wove  us  a  web  of  enchantment  around  all  we 
had  to  endure 
And  gave  us  the  heart  to  go  on  with  our  part,  by 
tunes  from  a  boxful  of  strings. 

He  wasn't  so  much  with  a  shovel,  though  willing  and 
anxious  enough 
His  hands  wasn't  made  for  the  ditch  diggers*  trade, 
but  he  could  dig  down  in  your  soul 
And  bring  up  your  dreams  and  your  visions  to  make 
you  forget  life  was  tough 
Forget,  for  a  time,  all  the  muck  and  the  slime,  of 
some  damn  detestable  hole; 

No  matter  how  weary  or  sleepless  or  worn  with  the 
march  he  might  be 
He*d  bring  from  the  keys  any  tune  that  you  please 
if  there  was  a  keyboard  to  try 
And  if  I  was  handing  out  medals  I'd  slip  him  the 
old  D.  S.  C. 
The  service  he  give  was  to  help  us  to  live — and 
help  us,  if  need  be,  to  die! 


[36} 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


CONVOY 

BLACK  night  folding   and   surrounding   us 
Camions  and  batteries  of  guns. 
No  light  save  the  shell-fire  pounding  us 

Searching  for  the  route  the  convoy  runs. 
Hey,  you!  Throw  that  coffin  nail  away. 

Where  you  think  you  are,  in  Central  Park? 
Poor  stew,  want  to  give  our  trail  away? 
Bringing  up  a  convoy  in  the  dark. 


Road's  clogged,  full  of  troops  ahead  of  us, 

Now  weVe  hit  a  hole,  the  motor  dies. 
Wheel's  bogged,  think  what's  being  said  of  us 

Where  the  Front  is  waiting  for  supplies ! 
What,  stuck?   No,  she  gives  a  cough  again 

Moves  a  little,  slow  as  Noah's  Ark, 
Here's  luck,  give  her  gas,  we're  off  again. 

Bringing  up  the  convoy  in  the  dark. 

Whee — ee,  crash!  Listen,  where  did  THAT  one  go? 

Seems  to  me  they're  getting  pretty  near. 
Some  smash!   Now  I  hear  a  fat  one  go 

Whining  through  the  inky  atmosphere. 
Whoa  there,  held  up  with  our  load  again 

Fritzie  must  have  landed  on  his  mark. 
Don't  swear,  they  will  clear  the  road  again — 

Bringing  up  a  convoy  in  the  dark. 

C37l 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


CONVOY  (continued) 

Crawl,  crawL  Guys  in  back  are  cussing  us, 

Powder  truck's  a  little  in  advance. 
Boys  all,  wouldn't  Fritz  be  mussing  us 

If  he  hit  THAT  camion  by  chance! 
Guns,  chow,  powder  and  machinery. 

Not  a  light  to  go  by,  not  a  mark, 
That's  how,  groping  through  the  scenery 

We  bring  up  the  convoy  after  dark. 


[38} 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


NIGHT  AT  THE  FRONT 

NIGHT  at  the  front— an'  the  star  shells  soarin* 
Lightin*  up  No  Man's  Land, 
Mutter  of  men,  an'  the  big  boys  roarin' 

Back  where  the  gunners  stand. 
Squelch  of  the  mud,  for  the  skies  are  pourin' 
Rotten — ^but  ain't  it  grand? 

Night  on  the  Front — an'  the  rockets  glarin* 

Signals,  I  guess,  an'  now 
Up   through  the   dark   our  planes   are  tearin* 

There  goes  a  gas  shell  "pow!" 
Look,  where  the  night  barrage  is  flarin' 

Makin'  a  fearful  row! 

Night  on  the  Front — an'  you  slip  an'  tumble 

Huntin'  the  place  you're  bound, 
Jerry's  batteries  roll  an'  rumble 

Searchin'  our  hidin*  ground, 
Archie  chatters,  an'  "bumble,  bumble" 

Gothas  are  dronin'  round! 

Night  on  the  Front— an'  the  front  is  seethin' 

Bubblin'  with  death  an'  hate. 
Stretched  along  like  a  dragon  breathin' 

Flames  of  a  fiery  fate 
Or  one  of  them  Moloch  gods  that's  heathen. 

Cruel  an'  fierce,  but  Great! 
[39] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


NIGHT  AT  THE  FRONT  (continued) 

Night  on  the  Front — an*  machine  guns  dnimmin' 

Spatterin'  mud,  lay  low! 
Wow!  Hear  that?   It's  a  big  one  hummin*. 

Lord,  what  a  gorgeous  show! 
Night  on  the  front— our  relief  is  comin* 

Pick  up  your  pack,  let's  go! 


[40] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


HIS  DETAIL 

WHAT  I  come  in  for 
When  I  joined  this  war 
Was  to  go  an*  fight  the  wicked  Hun, 

Face  the  horrid  Teut 

On  the  field,  an'  shoot 
Regiments  of  Boches  with  my  gun; 

So  I  took  my  chance 

Sailed  for  Sunny  France 
(Where  IVe  never  even  seen  the  sun) 

And,  it  seems  to  me, 

Since  I  crossed  the  sea, 
Diggin'  in  the  mud  is  all  IVe  done. 

What  I  do  is  dig 
Little  holes  an*  big. 

Rifle  pits  an*  trenches 

Full  of  rats  an*  stenches. 
Dugouts  that  are  anything  but  trig. 

Rifle?    Oh,  I*ve  got  it. 

But  I've  never  shot  it, 
AH  I  do  is  dig, 

dig, 
dig! 

When  I've  done  my  trick 
With  my  spade  an*  pick. 
When  I  think  my  job  is  finished,  then 
[41] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


HIS  DETAIL  (continued) 

Orders  comes  to  go 

On  ahead,  an'  so 
I  must  start  to  diggin*  in  again ; 

I  have  tossed  enough 

Of  this  mud  an*  stuff 
For  to  build  six  pyramids,  or  ten. 

This  man's  war  has  shown 

That  the  shovel's  grown 
Greater  than  the  rifle — or  the  pen ! 

What  I  do  is  dig 

Little  holes  an'  big, 

In  the  midst  of  shellfire 

Shrapnel,  gas  an'  hell  fire, 

Rootin'  for  my  shelter,  like  a  pig ; 
I  can't  tell  no  story 
Full  of  gleam  and  glory 

All  I  did  was  dig, 

dig, 
dig! 


f4aJ 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


*'THE  AMATEURS" 

(German  papers,  before  the  big  drive,  spoke  of  Ameri- 
can troops  as  "flabby'*). 

A  YEAR  ago  the  captain  was  instructor  in  a  col- 
lege. 
The  sergeant  was  a  plumber  and  the  corporal  a 
clerk. 
The  privates  had  no  glimmering  of  military  knowl- 
edge 
They'd  never  run  across  it  in  their  ordinary  work; 
But  in  today's  dispatches  there's  a  simple  little  item 
Describing  how  this  company  went  up  against  the 
Boche, 
And  smashed  a  Hun  battalion  that  was  coming  up  to 
fight  'em. 
And   took  two   German   companies  as   prisoners, 
b'gosh ! 


The  Prussian  has  his  veterans 
And  thinks  there  are  no  better  'uns. 
He  said  our  boys  were  flabby  and  the  greenest  of  the 
green, 
He  counted  on  defeating  them 
But  when  it  came  to  meeting  them 
His  veterans  departed  very  quickly  from  the  scene. 

[43] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


"THE  AMATEURS"  (continued) 

The  Captain  was  a  greenhorn  at  the  military  science 
But  he  flanked  the  German  Major  and  he  sent  him  to 
the  rear, 
The  shavetails  had  few  tactics  but  a  heap  of  self  re- 
liance. 
The  sergeants  and  the  corporals  were  novices,  it's 
clear; 
They  weren't  machine-made  soldiers  and  you  never 
would  have  picked  'em 
As  equal  to  the  Boches  in  the  goosestep  style  of  war. 
But  when  they  got  in  battle  with  the  Teutons,  why 
they  licked  'em. 
And  that  is  just  exactly  what  we  sent  them  over 
for. 

The  Prussians  were  the  gabby  ones, 
They  called  our  soldiers,  "Flabby  ones," 
"No  match  for  troops  of  Kultur  who  had  waded  deep 
in  blood," 
And  it  was  quite  a  jolt  to  them, 
In  fact,  a  thunderbolt  to  them. 
To  find  these  flabby  Yankees  trampling  Germans  in 
the  mud! 

The  Captain  wasn't  expert  in  the  art  of  killing  babies. 
The  shavetails  and  the  sergeants  and  the  corporals 
and  men 
Were  not  innoculated  with  the  military  rabies 

Which  crucifies  old  ladies  "as  a  lesson"  now  and 
then; 
They  were  too  soft  and  flabby  for  that  Teuton  brand 
of  slaughter, 

[44] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


"THE  AMATEURS"  (continued) 

They'd  never  quite  been  hardened  to  that  special 
point  of  view, 
To  smash  the  German  soldiers  was  what  made  'em 
cross  the  water 
And — that's  a  job  it's  evident  they're  tough  enough 
to  do! 


[45} 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


MUD 

NO,  it  isn't  the  shells  or  the  horrible  smells 
(Though  they  give  us  quite  trouble  enough) 
And  it  isn't  patrol  that  brings  chills  to  the  soul 

Nor  the  danger  and  all  of  that  stuff; 
It  isn't  the  "whee!"  of  the  flying  H.E. 

Nor  the  bullet  which  lands  with  a  thud. 
That  make  of  the  Front  such  a  nerve-racking  stunt, 
It's  the  Mud,  yes,  believe  me,  the  Mud  J 

Oh,  Bud, 
You'll  certainly  swear  at  the  mud; 
The  gummy  and  gluey 
And  scummy  and  gooey 
Result  of  continual  flood, 
The  swamp-and-muck  blend  of  it, 
World-without-end  of  it, 
Mud! 

Oh,  it  gets  everywhere,  in  your  eyes  and  your  hair. 

Your  mess-kit,  your  mask  and  your  gun. 
You're  caked  with  its  slime  and  three-fourths  of  the 
time 

Each  shoe  weighs  exactly  a  ton, 
The  duck  boards  sink  deep  in  the  stuff  and  you  sleep 

Where  it  fairly  soaks  into  your  blood. 
That's  what  we  abhor  in  this  weary  old  war 

The  Mud — boy,  you  said  it, — the  Mud. 
[46] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


MUD  (continued) 

Oh,  Bud, 
You  chew  it  like  cows  do  a  cud ; 
This  grimy,  eternal. 
And  slimy,  infernal. 
Admixture  that  comes  with  the  flood. 
This  worst-of-all-things  to  us 
Gosh-how-it-clings-to-us, 
Mud! 

It  drags  and  it  sucks  at  the  wheels  of  the  trucks 

And  holds  up  munitions  and  chow. 
It  bogs  the  big  guns  that  we  need  when  the  Huns 

Are  raising  a  horrible  row; 
It  seeps  through  the  tin  that  our  rations  are  in ; 

It  gets  in  each  bean  and  each  spud. 
And  if,  while  we  scoff  at  our  woes,  we're  bumped  off 

Doggone  it,  they  plant  us  in  Mud! 

Oh,  Bud, 
I  don't  want  to  lie  in  the  mud ! 
I  hope  they  won't  jam  me 
Way  down  in  that  clammy, 
That  jelly-like,  smelly  old  flood. 
That  can't-dodge-the-clutch-of-it, 
Always-too-much-of-it, 
Mud! 


147) 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


AERIAL  ADVENTURERS 

OUT  o£  the  past  they  roust, 
Spirit  of  times  that  knew 
Tourney  and  reckless  joust ; 
They  are  the  chosen  few 
Living  the  old  romance 

Playing  the  knightly  game, 
Wielding  for  flashing  lance. 
Bullets  that  flare  and  flame. 

Cuirasseurs  of  the  air 

Riding  their  winged  steeds. 
Forth  to  the  clouds  they  fare 

Heroes  of  breathless  deeds. 
Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold 

Never  knew  such  emprise; 
Knights  on  their  chargers  bold 

Swooping  across  the  skies. 

High  in  the  vault  above 

Driving  a  combat  Spad, 
We  shall  find  splendor  of 

Arthur  and  Galahad ; 
Sheepskin  for  shirt  of  mail. 

Yammering  gun  for  lance; 
Ranging  the  eagles'  trail 

Knights  of  the  old  Romance. 

[48] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  STUDENT  AVIATOR 

THEY  gave  me  army  tactics 
They  filled  me  full  of  Math. 
They  taught  me  how  to  build  a  trench 

And  march  along  a  path. 
I  had  a  course  in  rifle  fire 

(Which  isn't  used  in  air) 
They  drilled  me  on  the  bayonet 
Till  I  had  skill  to  spare. 

I  learned  to  take  a  plane  apart 

And  set  it  up  again; 
I  studied  motor  theory 

For  weeks  and  weeks,  and  then 
When  I  looked  forward  hopefully 

To  zooming  through  the  sky 
They  said  I  mustn't  flip,  because 

I  hadn't  learned  to  fly. 

So  it  was  school  at  Kelly  Field, 

And  Mineola,  too. 
And  then  they  shipped  me  over  here 

And  hope  sprung  up  anew. 
But  what  I  got  was  school  again. 

They  forced  me  to  endure 
A  three  months'  course  at  Issoudun 

Which  followed  one  at  Tours. 
[49] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  STUDENT  AVIATOR  (continued) 

For  eighteen  months  of  dreary  work 

The  same,  unending  round 
TheyVe  fitted  me  to  aviate 

But  kept  me  on  the  ground. 
I  joined  to  drive  a  chasse  plane 

And  know  war's  greatest  thrill 
But  what  I  got  was  drill  and  books 

And  I  am  at  it  still. 

It's  well  enough  to  ground  a  man 

Completely,  at  the  start. 
But  wherefore  keep  him  on  the  ground 

Until  you  break  his  heart? 
IVe  studied  till  the  war  is  done, 

I've  hoped  and  dreamed,  but  I 
Am  sure  I'll  never  drive  a  bus 

Till  I'm  too  old  to  fly. 


r#o] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


WHEN  I  get  through  wi 
of  this  man's  army. 


FUTURES 
(The  Pilot) 

with  this  man's  war  and  out 


The  kind  of  life  I'm  looking  for  is  one  that  cannot 

harm  me, 
No,  not  for  me  the  speedy  plane  I  used  to  pot  the  Hun 

with, 
A  second-handed  little  Ford  will  do  to  have  my  fun 

with. 
This  thing  of  dodging  through  the  skies  has  made  me 

tense  and  nervous, 
I'll  make  my  tours  in   Pullman  seats  when  I  am 

through  the  service. 
And  bump  to  work  in  trolley  cars  like  other  city 

dwellers. 
And  thank  my  stars  I'm  not  behind  the  blast  of  air- 
propellers. 


That's  me  when  I 
Don't  have  to  fly 
With  army  aviators, 
The  only  time 
I'll  ever  climb 

Will  be  in  elevators. 
[51] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


FUTURES  (continued) 

When  I  am  through  with  this  man's  war  and  out  of 
this  man's  army, 

I'll  be  a  person  who'll  abhor  whatever  might  alarm 
me. 

For  after  months  of  split-tail  stunts  and  wild  and 
reckless  chances. 

It's  me  to  play  things  safe  and  sane  in  placid  circum- 
stances. 

I'll  take  my  risks  in  auction  bridge  and  penny-ante 
poker. 

Where  there's  no  German  Fokker  bus  to  be  the  little 
joker, 

Let  others  gamble  in  the  games  of  danger  and  endur- 
ance, 

My  family'll  be  old  and  gray  when  they  get  my  insur- 
ance! 

I'll  never  take 

The  jobs  that  make 
A  fellow's  frame  grow  thinner; 
I  plan  to  plod 
Acquire  a  pod. 

And  nod  each  night  at  dinner. 

My  bus?  It's  that  one  over  there.  Some  traveler,  that 
baby. 

And  when  I'm  through,  well,  yes,  sometimes  I'll  think 
about  her,  maybe. 

And  dream  of  shouting  "contact,  boys,"  and  of  her 
motor  roaring. 

And  taxi-ing  along  the  field  and  lifting,  zooming,  soar- 
ing. 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


FUTURES  (continued) 

Just  now,  what  looks  the  best  to  me  is  peace  and  rest 

and  quiet. 
I'm  planning  for  the  simple  life  and  hoping,  when  I 

try  it, 
That  I  won't  find  this  Spad  of  mine  still  has  the  lure 

to  charm  me. 
And  make  me  dream  of  this  man's  war  and  long  for 

this  man's  army. 

Say,  but  she's  trim. 
And  swift  and  slim 
As  through  the  clouds  t  weave  her. 
And  I'll  admit 
That  when  I  quit 

I  sure  will  hate  to  leave  her! 


[ssl 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


ARCHIE 
(Anti-Aircraft  Gun) 

ARCHIE  sits  on  the  ground  below 
Pointing  his  nose  in  air, 
Archie's  trying  his  best  to  throw 

Shells  that'll  get  me  fair. 
He  tosses  his  shoots  and  spins  and  curves 

Up  where  my  Nieu-port  flits. 
But  he  isn't  hard  on  a  fellow's  nerves 
For  Archibald  seldom  hits. 


I'm  sneakingly  fond  of  Archie 
Except  when  he  comes  too  near. 

He  adds  to  the  zest  of  travel 
Round  in  the  ozone  here, 

I  look  down  and  grin  at  Archie 
Straffing  the  atmosphere. 


Archie  scatters  his  puffy  shells 

Freely  along  my  trail. 
Filling  my  path  with  bumps  and  swells. 

Up  where  he  sees  me  sail. 
And  if  I  stand  on  my  tail  and  stall 

I  oftentimes  hear  his  bark 
But  it's  hardly  ever  he  bites  at  all. 

So  dodging  him  is  a  lark! 

[54] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


ARCHIE  (continued) 

A  hopeful  old  dear  is  Archie, 

He  misses  ten  thousand  tries. 
But  patiently  goes  on  shooting 

At  every  old  thing  that  flies. 
Making  the  birds  unhappy 

Here  in  the  pleasant  skies. 

Archie's  brothers  quite  frequently 

Join  in  his  air-barrage. 
Seeking  to  make  a  hit  on  me 

Right  in  the  fuselage. 
So  I  split-tail  round  and  I  spin  and  dive 

And  thus,  when  the  party's  through 
I'm  perfectly  safe  and  much  alive 

And — Archibald's  healthy,  too. 

So  here's  to  your  fortune,  Archie, 
You  plodding  old  patient  Hun, 

May  you  never  lack  shells  to  scatter 
Wherever  the  air-craft  run. 

May  you  hopefully  go  on  straffing 
And  never  hit  anyone ! 


[55l 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


TRIBUTE 

FRITZ?    He  is  all  you  say, 
Bandit  and  Hun,  that  guy; 
But,  when  he  comes  your  way 
Zooming  up  through  the  sky. 
Riding  a  Fokker  bus 

Sitting  up  in  the  sun, 
He  is  a  fighting  cuss. 
He  is  a  bird,  the  Hun ! 


Many  who  sneered  at  Fritz 

— ^Thought  him  a  cinch,  somehow,- 
Lie,  with  their  planes  in  bits. 

Shoving  up  daisies  now. 
If  you  prefer  to  live 

Rather  than  tumble,  wrecked. 
You  will  be  wise  to  give 

Jerry  his  due  respect. 

Strapped  in  his  "office"  seat. 

Flipping  around  in  air. 
He  is  a  job  to  beat. 

He  is  an  ace,  a  bear. 
Dogfight  or  two  man  scrap 

He  is  a  peacherine, 
So,  when  you  crash  that  chap 

You  are  a  bird  that's  keen. 
[56] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


TRIBUTE  (continued) 

Like  him?    Not  me,  and  yet 

Nevertheless,  I  feel, 
Fritz,  when  in  air  weVe  met 

Worthy  my  lead  and  steel. 
Though  I  am  out  to  kill 

All  of  his  tribe  I  can. 
Speaking  in  terms  of  skill, 

Fritz  is  a  first-class  man. 

Who  was  it  called  him  "thick," 

I  haven't  found  him  so. 
Nary  a  stunt  or  trick 

Jerry  can't  do  and  show; 
Get  him  I  must,  and  do. 

Pluck  him  from  out  the  sky. 
Nevertheless  it's  true 

Little  old  Fritz  can  Fly! 


[57] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  LITTLE  GUY 

VT'OU  never  can  tell  by  a  Frenchy's  looks 

-■-       What  kind  of  a  fightin*  man  he  is. 
The  hero  bird  that  you  meet  in  books 

Is  a  husky  guy  with  a  noble  phiz, 
But  I  went  to  a  vaudeville  show  last  night 

An*  I  bought  a  drink  from  the  waiter  there. 
He  was  four  feet  seven  or  so  in  height, 

But  the  son  of  a  gun  had  the  Croix  de  Guerre ! 

He  was  just  a  kid  with  a  girlish  face, 

An'  his  weight  was  ninety  or  ninety-five, 
His  figger  hadn't  no  manly  grace. 

His  eyes  was  gentle,  but  Man  Alive ! 
Though  he  looked  too  fragile  to  pack  a  gun. 

He'd  croaked  ten  Boches,  that  was  his  share. 
An'  got  six  wounds  in  that  hell,  Verdun; 

So  the  son  of  a  gun  had  the  Croix  de  Guerre ! 

With  fifty  pounds  on  his  slender  back. 

He'd  march  for  days  till  he  reached  the  Front, 
You'd  swear  he  couldn't  of  borne  a  pack 

But  somehow  or  other  he  did  the  stunt; 
In  gas  an'  shell  fire  he'd  stood  the  gaff 

An'  gone  through  things  that  'ud  raise  your 
hair. 
His  meek  appearance  would  make  you  laugh, 

But  the  son  of  a  gun  had  the  Croix  de  Guerre. 
[58] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  LITTLE  GUY  (continued) 

So  I  sits  and  looks  at  that  puny  chap, 

And  I  says  to  myself,  and  knows  it's  tru©, 
"It  ain't  your  body  that  wins  a  scrap, 

It's  the  spirit  in  you  that  sees  you  through. 
And  the  soul  of  that  kid  is  the  soul  of  France, 

The  world's  great  hope  and  the  Hun's  despair. 
The  boy's  not  much  to  a  careless  glance, 

But  the  son  of  a  gun  has  the  Croix  de  Guerre !" 


[59l 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  ARMY  DOCTOR 

HE  gives  us  pills  for  many  ills. 
An*  all  the  pills  the  same ; 
No  matter  what  a  guy  has  got 

The  matter  with  his  frame. 
When  we  get  well  from  calomel 

He's  slipped  us  by  the  ton, 
He  thinks  for  sure  our  rapid  cure 
Is  something  he  has  done. 

Oh,  the  Army  Doc  is  a  bird  that's  fine. 
He  paints  us  over  with  iodine. 
But  for  all  we  jeer  an*  for  all  we  knock. 
He's  a  regular  fellow,  the  Army  Doc ! 

For  when  a  "show"  is  planned  we  know 

The  Doc  is  on  our  track. 
Where  H.E.'s  rain ;  to  soothe  the  pain 

Of  wounded,  crawlin'  back. 
He  takes  his  chance  in  our  advance 

With  surgeon's  knife  in  hand; 
Where  gas  clouds  lurk  he  does  his  work 

— A  job  I  couldn*t  stand. 

For  though  I've  got  kind  of  a  fightin'  nerve. 
It's  another  sort  of  thing  to  serve 
In  a  bloody  station  where  wounded  flock. 
An*  that  is  the  job  of  the  Army  Doc ! 
[60] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  ARMY  DOCTOR  (continued) 

With  probe  an'  splint  he  does  his  stint. 

Without  no  rest  or  sleep, 
Until  he  drops  or  something  stops 

The  wounded  lines  that  creep 
To  get  his  aid.    An'  when  he's  made 

His  final  dressin',  then 
His  nap  he  takes,  an'  when  he  wakes. 
He's  on  the  job  again. 

There's  many  a  simple  wooden  cross. 
That  marks  the  place  of  a  Doctor's  loss; 
But  many  a  soldier's  cross  ain't  there, 
Because  of  the  Army  Doctor's  care. 
He's  true  blue  color  that  will  not  crock. 
An'  I  sure  salutes  to  the  Army  Doc ! 


[6i] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


FRENCHY 

THEY  called  us  Yanks  and  we  called  them  Frogs 
But  what  is  there  in  a  name? 
In  summer's  dust  and  in  winter's  bogs, 

We'd  seen  how  they  played  the  game. 
We'd  watched  'em  march  with  a  slouchin*  gait. 

Their  packs  was  a  holy  fright, 
They  rattled  an'  banged  like  a  local  freight, 
But  Lord,  how  those  Frogs  could  fight! 

*Twas  **no  comprenny,"  an*  **ne  parlais," 

With  most  of  them  birds  we  met. 
But  we  liked  each  other  a  lot,  I'll  say. 

Them  poilus  is  men,  you  bet. 
Their  uniforms  fit  like  a  burlap  bag. 

Their  caps  are  a  joke,  for  fair, 
Their  belts  are  loose  an'  their  trousers  sag. 

But  the  Frogs  in  a  scrap  are  There. 

No,  they  ain't  so  much  when  it  comes  to  style, 

They're  stubby  an*  short  an*  small. 
But  there's  something  fine  in  their  sunny  smile, 

An*  the  light  in  their  eyes,  an*  all. 
That  sure  did  get  us,  an'  though  their  ways 

We  couldn't  quite  understand, 
We  found,  in  the  worst  of  our  fightin*  days. 

The  poilus  were  right  on  hand. 

£62] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


FRENCHY  (continued) 

We  called  'em  Frogs,  an'  they  called  us  Yanks, 

But  brothers  we  was,  ah,  oui. 
An'  we  didn't  laugh  at  their  shamblin'  ranks. 

When  we  thought  of  their  pedigree. 
We  fought  beside  'em  against  the  Boche, 

Till  all  of  the  war  was  through. 
An'  the  feller  that  rides  the  Frogs,  b'gosh. 

Will  mix  with  the  doughboy,  too ! 


[63] 


BUDDY  BALLADS 


THE  DOUGHBOY 

WE'RE  all  of  us  fightin*  the  war,  the  job  that  we 
come  over  for. 
The  rough  engineers  an'  the  boys  who  shift  gears 
On  the  trucks  that  come  up  with  munitions, 
The  shavetails  as  fresh  as  the  breeze,  the  busy  old 
nosey  M.P.s, 
An'  the  S.O.S.  guys,  who  keep  movin'  supplies. 
Through  all  kinds  of  times  an'  conditions ; 
But  when  you  come  down  to  the  plain  fightin'  stunt. 

With  all  of  the  strain  there  is  to  it, 
The  heart-breakin'  work  at  the  shell-hammered  front, 
The  Doughboy's  the  bird  who  must  do  it! 

Oh,  Boy,  Doughboy, 

Grab  your  pack  an'  kit, 
A  fresh  division's  needed. 

You've  got  to  pound  the  grit. 
Can't  you  hear  the  shellin'. 

See  the  star-shell's  arch? 
Oh,  Boy,  Doughboy, 

Time  for  you  to  march! 

The  general  looks  at  the  map  an'  dopes  out  the  plan 
of  the  scrap. 
His  orders  are  made  an*  the  words  are  relayed, 
An*  the  forces  for  action  assemble, 
[64] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  DOUGHBOY   (continued) 

The  aeroplanes  flicker  through  space,  the  batteries 
wheel  into  place; 
A  signal,  a  roar,  an*  the  heavy  shells  soar. 
The  earth  an'  the  atmosphere  tremble ! 
But  infantry's  waitin'  in  shellholes  an'  pits. 

Their  shelter  wherever  they  make  it, 
For  though  the  guns  shatter  the  Hun  line  to  bits. 
It's  up  to  the  Doughboy  to  take  it. 


Oh,  Boy,  Doughboy, 

Out  where  bullets  spurt, 
Eatin'  gas  an'  shrapnel, 

Burrowin'  in  dirt. 
When  the  shells  have  hammered 

Jerry  in  his  nest. 
Oh,  Boy,  Doughboy, 

You  must  do  the  rest! 


Sometimes  he  has  mess  tent  an'  bed,  but  mostly  he's 
up  where  he's  fed. 
Emergency  truck,  an'  sleeps  in  the  muck. 
Curled  up,  to  keep  warm,  with  his  Buddy ; 
He  stands  every  kind  of  a  bump,  the  whiz-bangs,  the 
H.E.'s  that  "crump!" 
The  gas  shells  that  plow  in  the  dirt  an'  go  "Pow !" 
The  shrapnel  that  makes  the  work  bloody; 
The  cold  an'  the  stink  an'  the  hunger  an'  thirst, 

He  bears  'em  an'  cusses,  but  no  boy 
Is  better  at  fightin'  when  things  are  the  worst, 
Than  Mr.  American  Doughboy! 

[65] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  DOUGHBOY  (continued) 
Oh,  Boy,  Doughboy, 

Hear  old  Jerry  squeal, 
How  he  hates  the  close  work, 

How  he  loathes  the  steel! 
When  you  jumped  his  trenches. 

Backward  Fritz  was  hurled, 
Oh,  Boy,  Doughboy, 

Sittin'  on  the  World! 


[661 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  RUNNER 

/^  F  all  the  jobs  in  this  man's  war 
^^       I*d  just  as  soon  steer  clear  of  his. 
It  ain't  a  thing  I'd  care  much  for, 

To  dodge  out  there  where  bullets  whiz, 
To  squirm  an*  duck  where  shells  have  struck, 

An'  face  m.g.s  that  bark  an'  crack. 
While  Jerry  pots  you  with  his  shots. 

An'  you  can't  stop  to  pot  him  back. 


It's  bad  enough  to  climb  the  top. 

An'  charge  the  trenches — at  a  walk. 
But  still,  when  Jerry  tries  to  stop 

Your  progress,  well,  your  gun  can  talk; 
It's  tough,  all  right,  but  you  can  fight. 

Give  Fritz  a  bayonet  massage ; 
The  runner  takes  your  chance,  then  makes 

His  way  back  through  our  own  barrage ! 


I've  seen  a  runner  start  to  race. 

Then  crumple,  bumped  off  by  the  Hun; 
I've  seen  another  take  his  place, 

An*  when  he  fell,  another  one 
Go  stumblin'  on  till  he  is  gone 

Where  shellfire  makes  the  earth  a  chum, 
I've  seen  him  go,  but  this  I  know, 

I  seldom  see  that  guy  return. 
[67] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  RUNNER  (continued) 

I  think  I  got  good  fightin'  nerves 

This  game  requires  'em,  understand? 
But  my  hat's  off  to  him  who  serves 
As  runner  over  No  Man's  Land; 
Retreat,  advance,  he  takes  his  chance, 
However  ticklish  it  may  be; 

Some  guy  must  get  that  duty,  yet, 
I'd  just  as  soon  it  wasn't  me! 


rai 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


ANZACS 

JACQUES  is  a  peach  of  a  fighter,  Tommy's  a  he- 
person,  too, 

Tony's  a  regular  fellow ;  nevertheless  it  is  true 

Anzacs  are  "our  kind  of  people,"  closer  than  all  of  the 
rest. 

Though  they  come  out  of  the  north  an'  south,  out  of 
the  east  an*  the  west; 

Big  shouldered,  six-foot  Australians,  wearin'  their  tip- 
tilted  hats, 

Africans  sent  up  from  Capetown,  men  from  Saskat- 
chewan's flats, 

Guys  out  of  distant  New  Zealand,  hearin*  Brittania's 
call, 

Fightin'  like  tigers  for  England,  but  "our  kind  of  folks, 
after  all." 


'Our  kind  of  people," 
From  near  an'  from  far. 

Much  more  like  us 
Than  like  English,  they  are; 

Look  like  us,  talk  like  us. 
Fight  like  we  fight, 

Anzacs  are  "our  kind  of  people* 
All  right! 

[69] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


ANZACS  (continued) 

Jacques  has  a  way  that  is  pleasant  but  we  can't  talk 

with  him  much. 
Tommy  we're  likely  to  row  with,  round  about  bar- 
rooms an*  such. 
Sort  of  a  neighborhood  mix-up,  kind  of  a  sociable 

scrap ; 
But,  when  we  meet  up  with  Anzacs,  here  from  all  over 

the  map, 
Arm-in-arm  Buddies  we  make  them,  whether  on  leave 

or  in  line, 
Raisin*  the  same  style  of  rumpus,  so  we  get  on  with 

them  fine. 
Somehow  we  fit  with  each  other,  any  old  place  we  may 

be, 
Fightin'  beside  'em  in  battle,  or  frolicin'  round  in 

Paree! 

"Our  kind  of  people," 
An*  our  style  of  folks, 
Learnin*  our  slang, 

Understandin*  our  jokes. 
Lantern-jawed,  long-legged, 

D  evil-may-care, 
Anzacs  are  "our  kind  of  people*' 
For  fair! 

Part  of  Britannia's  empire,  servin'  their  land  an'  their 

king, 
Yet,  when  you  look  at  'em  marchin',  they  have  a  style 

an*  a  swing 
More  like  our  troops  than  the  English;  so  when  I*ve 

watched  *em  I've  felt 

[70] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


ANZACS  (continued) 

They  are  the  Yanks  of  Alberta,  Yanks  from  the  Bush 

an'  the  Veldt, 
Products  of  our  kind  of  climate,  men  from  our  kind  of 

domain. 
Lands  that  are  new  an'  uncrowded,  wide  lands  of 

mountain  an'  plain, 
Realms  where  the  wind  an'  the  sunshine  give  every 

fibre  a  tang, 
— That's  why  we  get  on  together,  that's  why  they're 

our  kind  of  gang. 

"Our  kind  of  people," 

From  our  kind  of  home 
Where  there  is  space 

For  a  fellow  to  roam. 
Where  the  life's  free. 

An'  the  ozone  is  pure, 
Anzacs  are  "our  kind  of  people" 
For  sure! 


I7i]i 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  SHAVETAIL 

TO  them  I'm  a  "Louie,"  that's  all, 
They  hear  me  with  patience  and  phlegm. 
While  I— well,  at  heart,  I  just  fall 

In  something  like  worship  of  them; 
There  never  were  such  boys  before, 

It  may  be  there  won't  be  again. 
My  smiling,  unscareable,  gentle  and  terrible 
Bully  American  Men ! 


It's  "Come  to  salute"  when  we  meet. 
In  barrack  and  billet  and  street. 
But  if  I  should  do  as  I  felt, 
In  spite  of  my  bar  and  my  belt, 
I'd  hug  *em  like  brothers,  and  then, 
I'd  take  off  my  cap  to  my  men. 


They  view  me  as  sort  of  a  joke. 

Obey  me  because  it's  the  code. 
But  I  sort  of  swallow  and  choke 

When  seeing  them  march  up  a  road. 
Oh,  boy,  they're  so  big-limbed  and  strong. 

So  calm  and  so  cheerful  that  when 
I  march  with  a  crowd  of  them  I'm  so  darned 
proud  of  them, 

I  want  to  cheer  for  my  men. 
C72] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  SHAVETAIL  (continued) 

It's  "Yes,  sir,"  and  "No,  sir,"  they  say. 
For  that  is  the  service  man's  way. 
But  save  for  that  rule,  I've  a  hunch 
I'd  like  to  be  "Bud"  to  that  bunch, 
(Provided  they'd  let  me)  for  then 
I  might  reach  the  heart  of  my  men! 

They'll  plunge  into  hell  at  the  word. 

Come  out  of  it,  half  of  them  gone. 
And  then,  as  though  nothing'd  occurred. 

Pick  out  a  fresh  hell — and  go  on! 
They're  humorous,  tender  and  stern. 

And,  oh,  but  it's  great  to  have  been 
Along  with  these  cootie-ful,  muddified,  beautiful 

Gorgeous  American  Men! 

It's  "Louie"  they  call  me,  but  who 

Is  likely  to  mind  if  they  do? 

They've  done  the  real  work  in  this  show, 

I'll  say  that  they  have,  and  I  know. 

And,  take  it  from  me  once  again. 

There's  nothing  on  earth  like  my  men  I 


[73l 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


TOMMY 

OUEER  about  Tommy,  we  can't  get  along  with  him. 
Always  in  wrong  with  him 
Can't  seem  to  fix  it. 
Ought  to  be  chums,  but  whenever  we  chat  with  him 
We  hit  the  mat  with  him 
Gee,  how  we  mix  it! 
He's  our  blood  brother,  but,  somehow  or  other 

When  we  meet  Tommy  it's  "Call  for  the  Cop!" 
Yet  when  we're  waiting  in  trenches  that  hide  us 
We  like  to  know  that  old  Tommy's  beside  us 
Ready  to  climb  with  us  over  the  top. 

Tommy,  oh  Tommy,  here's  lookin'  at  you ; 
We  fight  you  whenever  you  heave  into  view. 
But  when  the  guns  boom  an'  there's  trouble  to 

share, 
Tommy,  oh  Tommy,  we're  glad  you  are  there ! 

Strange  about  Tommy,  we  like  the  plain  style  of  him, 
Love  the  warm  smile  of  him 
Never  down-hearted 
Yet  when  we  meet  him  we  need  the  M.  P.'s  around 
Swarming  like  bees  around 
Getting  us  parted; 
Blood  they  say's  thicker  than  water  or  licker 
Still,  it  runs  fast  when  we  gather,  I've  found. 
But  when  barrages  our  ear-drums  are  floggin' 

[74J 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


TOMMY  (continued) 

When  a  drive  starts  that  is  dogged  an'  sloggin' 
Tommy's  a  bird  we  like  stickin'  around ! 

Tommy,  oh  Tommy,  here's  to  you,  old  dear, 
We  can't  agree,  though  the  reason  ain't  clear. 
Yet  when  the  game  is  to  shatter  the  Hun, 
Tommy,  oh  Tommy,  we  fight  him  as  one. 

Truth  about  Tommy  is,  he  stands  all  right  with  us 
Though   he   will   fight  with  us 
When  we're  together, 
Down  in  our  hearts  we  admire  the  brave  wit  he  has. 
Love  the  grim  grit  he  has. 
Built  for  rough  weather; 
What  if  we  batter  each  other,  no  matter, 

When  the  gas  thickens  and  shells  crash  an*  whine 
When  it's  close  work  in  a  battle  that's  bloody 
Tommy's  our  pal  an'  our  chum  an*  our  Buddy, 
We  like  to  know  he  is  next  to  our  line ! 

Tommy,  oh  Tommy,  here's  to  you,  old  horse 
You're  the  style  soldier  we're  proud  to  endorse, 
Though  we  may  scrap  with  you  when  you  are 

nigh. 
Tommy,  oh  Tommy,  you're  some  little  guy! 


[75l 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


w 


ENGINEERS 

HEN  the  convoy  crawls  on  a  long  white  road 
Straight  to  the  blazing  line. 
While  the  drivers  nod  as  they  guide  their  load 

On  where  the  star  shells  shine, 
If  a  two  ten  drops  with  a  roaring  crash 

The  big  trucks  cease  to  roll 
And  the  CO.  growls  as  he  views  the  smash 
And  swears  at  the  ten-foot  hole; 

"Job  for  the  Engineers, 

Bring  up  the  wrecking  crew. 
Shovel  and  pick  will  do  the  trick 
Then  we  can  go  on  through." 
They're  on  the  spot,  you  bet 

Soon,  with  a  clash  of  gears. 
We're  on  the  way  for  the  road's  O.  K. 

Fixed  by  the  Engineers! 

When  the  storm  troops  wait  at  the  river  banks 

And  each  stone  bridge  is  blown. 
And  the  stream's  too  deep  for  the  fat  old  tanks 

And  pontoons  must  be  thrown; 
Where  the  water  boils  with  the  shell  and  shot 

It  "Engineers  'toot  sweet'*" 
They  will  lose  one-half  of  the  men  they've  got 

But  build  that  bridge,  complete. 

**Tout  d»  suite'— right  away! 
[76] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


ENGINEERS  (continued) 

"Job  for  the  Engineers, 
Never  you  mind  the  loss 
Fritz  has  a  hate  but  the  troops  can't  wait 

See  that  they  get  across. 
You  won't  get  no  rewards 

Hear  any  shouts  or  cheers, 
Bring  up  your  mob  for  here's  a  job. 
Job  for  the  Engineers." 

Oh,  they  mend  the  wire  where  it  guards  the  front 

They  dig  the  dug-outs  deep, 
And  to  tunnel  mines  is  their  steady  stunt 

Like  moles  that  get  no  sleep, 
They  take  their  chance  where  the  gas  clouds  lurk 

And  I'll  say  it  appears. 
That  darn  small  glory  and  beaucoup  work 

Comes  to  the  Engineers. 

"Job  for  the  Engineers, 

Something  that  *can't  be  done'," 
Nevertheless  they'll  do  it,  yes. 

That's  how  they  get  their  fun. 
Armed  with  a  kit  of  tools 

Careless  of  hopes  or  fears. 
Big  jobs  or  small,  you  simply  call. 

Call  for  the  Engineers. 


[77] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  SMOKES 

SEND  'em  over  in  the  daylight 
When  there's  Boches  they  can  see. 
An'  they'll  rush  'em  with  the  butt  or  bayonet ; 
But  at  night,  or  in  the  gray  light 
When  the  dawn  is  strugglin'  free 
You  can't  trust  the  crazy  dinges  on  a  bet ! 
They  get  wary  at  the  shadows  an'  they  lose  their 
nerve  an'  break 
At  the  shells  that  seem  to  come  from  God-knows- 
where, 
They  forget  that  they  are  fightin'  for  their  dear  old 
country's  sake. 
An'  they  simply  want  to  get  away  from  there! 

'Taint  for  me  to  criticise  'em 

For  I  know  that  they  can  fight 
When  you  put  'em  in  a  scrimmage,  hand-to-hand; 
But  as  buddies  I  don't  prize  'em 
When  the  job  is  sittin*  tight 
Where  the  shells  is  makin'  powder  of  the  land. 
So  in  char  gin*,  hell  for  leather,  where  a  man  can  see 
his  mark. 
You  can  count  upon  the  smokes  for  showin'  prime, 
But  for  waitin'  an'  for  stickin'  an'  for  sloggin'  through 
the  dark 
I  would  rather  have  the  white  men  every  time ! 


[78] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  REGULAR 

("And  Tommy  ain't  a  bloomin'  fool,  you  bet  that 
Tommy  sees!") 

I*M  one  of  the  Regular  Army  Men,  enlisted  before 
the  war 
When  fifteen  per  was  the  pay  we  got — an*  learned  to 

be  soldiers  for — 
I  joined  in  the  days  when  Olive  Drab  was  lackin'  in 

real  eclat. 
An'  it  wasn't  often  a  doughboy  found  a  "welcome" 

upon  the  mat. 
I'm  a  hero  now,  an*  the  ladies  bow,  an*  it's  pleasant 

enough, — an'  yet 
It's  worryin'  me  how  long  'twill  be  till  the  people  again 

forget ! 


'Only  a  common  soldier," 

That's  what  they  used  to  say 
Though  they  must  of  seen  I  was  straight  an* 
clean 

The  same  as  I  am  today, 
I  looks  at  the  flags  a-wavin*, 

I  thinks  of  them  times  that's  past. 
An'  I'm  sayin'  "Yes,  it  is  fine,  I  guess, 

— How  long  is  it  gonna  last?" 


[79] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  REGULAR  (continued) 

The  National  guard  comes  homeward  from  fightin' 

the  ugly  Teuts, 
The  drafted  men  get  their  papers  an'  put  on  their 

ciwie  suits; 
They  all  of  them  done  their  portion,  we  regulars  done 

the  same. 
But    we  gotta  go  on  playin'  the    steady  old    army 

game. 
They  finished  their  bit,  all  right,  an'  quit;  their  glory 

will  not  be  lost, 
An'  the  regular  force  gets  cheers,  of  course,  but— 

I  have  my  fingers  crossed! 

"Only  a  common  soldier," 

It  used  to  be  said  with  sneers. 
An'  I  still  recall  every  slight  an'  all 

The  scorn  of  them  bygone  years. 
Just  now  I'm  a  social  lion 

Enjoyin'  it  while  I  can 
Till  the  graft  goes  bust  an'  they  say,  "He's 
just 

A  Regular  Army  man, 
A  roughneck  brute  in  a  khaki  suit, 

A  Regular  Army  man !" 


[80] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  MARINES 

SAID  the  Doughboy,  "You  Marines 
Made  a  rep  at  Chateau-Thierry." 
Said  the  Leatherneck — three  wound  stripes  on  his 
sleeve — 
"We  have  fought  in  many  scenes, 
An'  you  fellers  make  we  weary; 
When  you  say  we  *made  a  rep,'  I  get  a  peeve. 
We're  the  oldest  arm  of  service 
An'  the  world  knows  what  our  nerve  is 
An'  our  rep  was  made  a  hundred  years  ago ; 
By  a  thousand  fights  we've  gained  it, 
Chateau-Thierry  just  sustained  it, 
Which  is  something  else  again,  believe  me.  Bo!" 


Said  the  Doughboy,  "Well,  it's  clear 
We  don't  hear  so  much  about  you 
Since  we  got  a  lot  of  doughboys  on  the  job!" 

Said  the  Leatherneck,  "Look  here. 

Though  by  rights  I  otta  clout  you, 
I'll  just  put  a  thought  or  two  within'  your  knob. 

We  weren't  very  great  in  number 

When  we  started ;  now  we  slumber 
Under  crosses,  or  the  best  of  us  are  there ; 

And  the  rest,  their  job's  completed. 

With  an  arm  or  leg  deleted 
You  can't  do  much  further  fightin'  anywhere!" 

[8i] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  MARINES  (continued) 

Said  the  Doughboy,  "You're  so  proud 
An*  you  do  a  lot  of  struttin' 
An'  you  talk  as  though  your  bunch  was  all  the 
cheese." 
Said  the  Leatherneck,  "Our  crowd. 
While  your  eye-teeth  you  was  cuttin* 
Had  been  fightin'  all  around  the  seven  seas. 
Belleau  Woods  an'  Porto  Rico 
An'  Manila  an'  Tampico, 
Pekin,  China,  an'  Havana  hold  our  dead; 
An'  if  we  are  talkin'  strong  to 
Boost  the  corps  that  we  belong  to 
It's  because  there's  good  an'  plenty  to  be  said!" 


fit] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  YID  BATTALION 

THEY  took  a  bunch  of  Hebrews  from  New  York's 
East  Side 
They  put  'em  into  khaki  and  they  made  'em  drill ; 
They  bronzed  'em  in  the  sunshine  and  they  taught 
'em  pride 
Pride  in  being  soldiers  who  could  fight  with  skill. 


Pallid  "cloak-and-suiters"  from  the  sweat  shop  crowd 

Changed  to  husky   doughboys   and  were  shipped 

to  France, 

Marched  to  front-line  trenches,  where  they  did  us 

proud. 

All  that  they  had  needed  was  a  white  man's  chance. 


Through  the  Argonne  forest  where  the  Boches  lay 
Stormed  this  Yid  battalion  in  a  charge  superb, 

Warriors  blithe  and  fearless,  who  but  yesterday 
Overflowed   the   sidewalks   and   the   Grand   street 
curb. 


Valiant,  over-eager,  they  were  trapped  by  Huns, 
Cut  off  and  surrounded  in  the  Argonne  Wood, 

Sniped  by  hidden  rifles  and  by  German  guns ; 
Did  these  Yids  surrender?  No,  by  God,  they  stood! 

[83] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  YID  BATTALION  (continued) 
Out  of  ammunition  and  of  rations,  too. 

Looking  every  minute  in  the  face  of  death. 
In  war's  fiery  furnace  they  were  proven  true. 

True  to  all  we  fight  for — to  each  man's  last  breath. 

"Death,"  the  Teutons  signalled,  "is  your  certain  fate. 
But  if  you  surrender  we  will  treat  you  well," 

Brief,  profane,  immortal  was  their  answer,  straight ; 
Shouted,  all  together,  "You  can  go  to  Hell!" 

Rescuers  released  them,  but  as  white  as  flame 
Shines  their  light  of  glory  not  to  be  denied ; 

Alamo,  Thermopylae — matched  by  men  who  came 
Fighting  through  the  Argonne  from  New  York'i 
East  Side! 


C«4l 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


"BUDDY" 

TITHAT  does  "Buddy"  mean? 
^^        It's  like  this;  you  see 
All  that  I  can  tell  is  what 
"Buddy"  means  to  me. 

It  means  a  feller  you  like  an'  chum  with, 
Play  an'  sleep  with  an'  fight  an'  bum  with. 
Made  of  the  stuff  that  you're  designed  of 
Partner,  an'  pal  an'  brother,  kind  of. 
One  who  shares  in  the  pup  tent's  shelter 
When  the  whole  blame  world  is  a  muddy  welter. 
It  means  that  all  that  you  have  goes  double. 
Luck  an'  money  an'  fun  an'  trouble! 

"Buddy"  means  there's  a  guy  beside  you 
Ready  to  scrap  if  the  others  ride  you, 
One  who'll  jolly  you,  jeer  you,  cuss  you, 
An*  carry  you  back  if  a  shell  should  muss  you ; 
One  you'll  swear  by  an'  stand  the  gaff  for 
Break  your  last  wet  "pill"  in  half  for, 
One  you'll  lie  for  an*  take  the  blame  for, 
Knowin'  it's  you  he'd  do  the  same  for. 

"Buddy"  means  there's  a  chap  who  hands  you 
Knocks  an'  boosts,  an*  who  understands  you. 
One  to  wade  with  through  fire  an'  water 
Close  at  hand  in  the  reddest  slaughter ; 

[85] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


•BUDDY"   (continued) 

Who,  if  you're  killed  as  the  battle  blazes, 
Drops  a  tear  where  you  push  up  daisies, 
"Buddy"  means, — why,  it  don't  need  study- 
Somebody  like  my  good  old  "Buddy" ! 


What  does  "Buddy"  mean? 

It's  like  this,  you  see 
All  that  I  can  tell  is  what 

"Buddy"  means  to  me! 


[««] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


"SON  FAIRY  ANN" 

(Which  is  Buddy's  version  of  the  French  *C*  ne  fait 
rien'  meaning,  "It  doesn't  matter,"  or  "what's  the 
odds?") 

WAR  kind  of  gets  a  man  in  time 
So  he  just  takes  things  as  they  come, 
The  smells,  the  sights,  the  dust,  the  slime. 

The  good  chow  or  the  rotten  slum. 
If  luck  goes  right  or  wholly  wrong 

He  stands  it  all  the  best  he  can 
And  takes  whatever  comes  along 
With  just  these  words,  "Son  Fairy  Ann." 


At  first  he  thinks  he's  gonna  be 

A  hero,  doing  noble  stunts 
For  which  he'll  get  the  D.S.C. 

And  win  a  captaincy  at  once. 
But  when  he  is  a  private  still 

A  year  from  when  he  first  began 
He  swallows  Fortune's  bitter  pill 

And  simply  says,  "Son  Fairy  Ann." 


His  girl  from  home,  she  throws  him  down 
His  mother's  letters  don't  arrive 

He  can't  get  leave  to  go  to  town 
He's  wet  an*  cold  an*  half  alive 

[87] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


'SON  FAIRY  ANN"  (continued) 

His  clothes  are  full  of  things  that  crawl 

He  fights  an'  does  what  others  plan 
He  sees  his  closest  buddies  fall 

An*  learns  to  say,  "Son  Fairy  Ann." 

An*  though  he  may  not  like  his  lot 

He  sticks,  because,  to  put  it  terse, 
He's  built  that  way,  and,  like  as  not. 

If  he  should  change  he'd  get  it  worse ; 
Thirst,  hunger,  death,  they  all  are  one 

He  takes  them  like  an  army  man 
And  dreams  of  home  when  war  is  done 

As  for  the  rest— "Son  Fairy  Ann." 


[a] 


BUDDY  BALLADS 


KNOWLEDGE 

1HAD  lived  softly,  trodden  pleasant  ways. 
Sounded  no  depths  of  life,  looked  on  the  mere 
Shell  of  the  world,  with  lazy  critic  gaze. 
Heard  its  great  voice  with  inattentive  ear; 
War  snatched  me  from  the  cloying  atmosphere 
Of  clubs  and  foyers  to  adventure  high. 

Taught  me  to  feel,  hate,  love,  endure  and  fear, 
I  lived  and  fought  with  men  and  saw  them  die! 


What  spaces  I  have  spanned  in  these  great  days! 

How  far  am  I  from  that  glib,  insincere 
Cynic  who  summed  existence  in  a  phrase 

And  looked  on  all  things  human  with  a  sneer! 

One  learns  the  verities  when  over  here. 
Where  red  war  flames  along  the  arching  sky. 

And  in  a  life  that  strips  souls  stark  and  sheer, 
I  lived  and  fought  with  men  and  saw  them  die! 

Comradeship  I  have  found  where  cannon  blaze. 

Loyalty  to  the  end,  abiding  cheer 
In  "heirs  despite";  courage  beyond  all  praise 

And  life  held  cheap  because  a  faith  is  dear ; 

Of  old  I  saw  the  world  an  ugly  smear. 
Not  knowing  that  my  sight  was  all  awry 

But  war's  rough  hand  swept  my  dull  vision  clear, 
I  lived  and  fought  with  men  and  saw  them  die. 
(89] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


KNOWLEDGE  (continued) 

Envoy 

Thank  God  the  wrath  of  war  will  disappear. 
Yet  this  it  brought  me,  which  I  could  not  buy, 

The  memory  that  through  one  flaming  year 
I  lived  and  fought  with  men  and  saw  them  die ! 


[90] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


FED  UP 

ADVENTURE'S  fine  to  talk  about,  1^1  say. 
But  I  have  had  enough  of  it  in  mine, 
I  dreamed  about  the  "glory  of  the  fray" 

Until  at  last  they  put  me  into  line. 
And  there  I  learned  the  beauties  of  fighting  rats 
and  cooties. 
And  cold  and  mud  and  Boches  that  I  met, 
IVe  known  the  noise  and  gore  of  it, 
IVe  had  enough  and  more  of  it 

You  bet, 
I'll  hit  the  trail  for  home  without  regret. 

I  s'pose  I'm  glad  I've  seen  the  thing,  at  that. 
For  I  know  how  I'll  swell  around  at  home. 

Tell  how  I  wore  a  mask  and  for  a  hat, 
Sported  a  nice  tin  derby  on  my  dome; 

But  in  my  life  at  present  I  find  it  darned  un- 
pleasant ; 
This  war  thing  isn't  any  pleasure  tour, 

And  I  have  had  enough  of  it 
For  sure. 

It  doesn't  take  a  lot  to  make  a  cure. 

Don't  get  me  wrong,  I  haven't  any  kick, 
I'm  here  to  stay  until  this  job  is  done 

But  when  we've  won  the  war  and  turned  the  trick 
Believe  me,  I  don't  want  another  one, 
[91] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


FED  UP  (continued) 

IVe  seen  my  share  of  slaughter  and  I  will  cross 
the  water 
As  thankful  and  as  pleased  as  I  can  be, 
Some  men  ain't  had  their  fill  of  it,  they'll  miss, 
they  say,  the  thrill  of  it, 
Not  me! 
When  Uncle  Sam  says  "Beat  it,"  I'll  agree. 

Some  people  are  afraid  when  we  return 

We'll  be  a  warlike  bunch.    It  makes  me  grin, 
For  most  of  us  have  had  our  chance  to  learn 
What  war  is  and  to  hate  the  thing  like  sin ; 
Why  say,  it  makes  me  dizzy  to  think  of  getting 
busy 
At  work  and  play  like  peaceful  people  do. 
Leave  all  this  dirty,  cheesy  life  and  start  a  soft 
and  easy  life 
All  new. 
Say,  after  this,  no  war  for  me,  I'm  through. 


[92] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  HIDDEN  THINGS 

THERE'S  things  a  fellow  talks  about 
To  almost  anyone. 
Stories  he's  always  reeling  out 

Of  fighting,  work  or  fun, 
But  often  you'll  go  through  a  heap 

Of  life  that's  hard  and  grim 
And  with  some  chap  you'll  eat  and  sleep 
A  year,  before  he'll  speak  what's  deep 
Down  in  the  heart  of  him. 


The  gentle,  hidden  tender  things 

All  locked  and  sealed  away. 
Behind  his  ready,  careless  speech 

Of  women,  wine  and  pay. 
For  all  the  real  and  sacred  things 

Are  rarely  on  display. 

You'll  know  some  bird  who's  loud  and  tough, 

Full  of  black  oaths  and  such. 
Whose  speech  is  crammed  with  bar-room  stuff, 

And  then,  some  day,  you'll  touch 
The  latchstring  to  that  roughneck's  heart 

And  find,  concealed  within. 
Something  he's  thought  of  from  the  start, 
A  secret  dream  he's  placed  apart. 

From  revel,  lust  and  sin. 

[93l 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  HIDDEN  THINGS  (continued) 

Some  little  thing,  some  lovely  thing 

He's  kept  and  cherished  so; 
He's  thinking  that  the  light  of  day 

Will  make  it  fade  and  go. 
And  half  afraid,  and  half  ashamed 

He  seldom  lets  it  show. 

And  that's  the  way  with  all  the  lot 

Who  joined  to  go  to  war. 
We  talk  of  many  things,  but  not 

Of  what  we're  fighting  for; 
Guns,  chow  and  smokes,  the  last  big  drive. 

Gossip  and  news  we've  heard, 
Who's  missing,  wounded,  dead,  alive, 
But,  of  the  cause  for  which  we  strive. 

You'll  scarcely  hear  a  word. 

For  that's  one  of  the  deeper  things 
That  fellows  always  shove 

Way  out  of  sight,  like  thoughts  of  God 
And  those  of  Her  you  love. 

The  truer  things,  the  greater  things 
We  shrink  from  speaking  of. 


[94l 


BUDDY  BALLADS 


AMBITION 

THE  mighty  tunes  that  you  stand  up  to, 
That  throb  and  peal  with  a  stately  beat. 
Are  not  the  sort  that  I  want  to  do. 
But  the  rag  whose  witchery  stirs  the  feet. 
For  when  men  march  through  a  shell-wrecked 
street 
Or  move  up  into  the  lines,  at  night, 

It's  ragtime  airs  that  their  lips  repeat 
And  those  are  the  tunes  I'd  like  to  write. 

Oh,  the  tunes  men  play  on  a  fine  tooth  comb 

In  trench  and  barracks,  on  bivouac. 
When  there's  not  a  star  in  the  inky  dome 

And  never  a  light  must  stab  the  black; 

The  tunes  men  hum  as  with  creaking  pack 
They  slog  along  to  the  weary  fight — 

Whatever  musical  art  they  lack. 
Those  are  the  tunes  I'd  like  to  write! 

Let  the  critics  sneer,  as  the  critics  will, 

But  the  times  men  sing  where  the  earth  and  sky 
Are  spewing  death,  are  the  tunes  whose  thrill 

Is  somehow  magical,  fine  and  high; 

They  have  a  glory  none  may  deny 
Though  the  airs  be  simple,  the  burdens  light. 

If  they're  hummed  by  men  as  they  fight — and  die, 
Those  are  the  tunes  I'd  like  to  write. 

[95] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  LOST  BUDDY 

PEACE  doesn't  mean  the  same  to  me 
As  it  would — yesterday; 
Me  and  my  buddy'd  planned  to  be 

Life  pardners,  all  the  way 
We  thought  we'd  start  a  little  shop 

After  this  bloody  show. 
After  the  guns  come  to  a  stop, 
But  now,  it  can't  be  so. 

/ 

I'm  used  to  seein'  comrades  fall 

About  me,  everywhere, 
I  liked  'em  and  I  missed  *em  all 

But  muttered,  "C'est  la  Guerre." 
It  was  the  price  that  must  be  paid 

By  men  who  take  a  chance 
In  this  great  game  of  death  that's  played 

Upon  the  soil  of  France. 


But  this  is  different,  my  friend 

Fell  in  last  night's  attack. 
Today  the  war  is  at  an  end 

But  that  won't  bring  him  back ; 
His  life  was  lost  in  vain,  for  peace 

Was  on  the  way.   His  blood, 
Mingled  with  rains  that  never  cease, 

Seeps  through  the  Flanders  mud. 
[96] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  LOST  BUDDY  (continued) 

So  while  the  others  cheer  the  news 

Of  peace,  I  curse  at  Fate, 
My  buddy's  underneath  this  ooze ; 

His  life  was  spent — too  late. 
There  is  no  chance,  nor  will  there  be 

To  make  the  Huns  repay. 
And  peace  don't  mean  the  same  to  me 

As  it  would  yesterday. 


l97l 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  FIGHTING  EDGE 

ENGLISH  and  Belgians,  Italians  and  French 
Fought  like  grim  fury  in  dug-out  and  trench, 
More  than  four  years  of  it — God,  what  a  spell 
Spent  in  the  nearest  there  is  to  a  hell! 
All  of  our  losses  seem  tiny  and  light 
Stacked  up  beside  of  their  total,  all  right; 
But  this  much  we  did,  in  the  last  great  attack 
We  started  Fritz  on  the  trail  that  leads  back! 

Others  have  lost  more 

In  battles  that  cost  more, 
Others  held  eighty  percent  of  the  line, 

All  that  we  claim 

Is  this  share  of  the  fame, 
We  started  Fritz  on  his  way  to  the  Rhine. 

Down  all  the  ages  the  world  will  recall 
Tommy,  who,  fighting  with  back  to  the  wall. 
Stopped  the  Boche  gang;  and  the  poets  will  sing 
Praises  of  poilus  who  did  that  same  thing; 
But,  when  the  Fritzies  had  driven  that  wedge 
Close,  close  to  Paris,  we  blunted  its  edge. 
Smashed  it,  in  fact,  and  with  one  nasty  crack 
Started  the  Boches  to  traveling  back. 

Others — ^you  said  it — 
Earned  lots  of  credit. 
They  fought  our  fight  long  before  we  came  in, 
[98] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  FIGHTING  EDGE  (continued) 
Only,  we  say 
In  a  casual  way 
We  started  Fritz  on  the  hike  for  Berlin! 

We  was  all  fresh,  young  and  vigorous  guys. 
We  hadn't  suffered  like  other  allies, 
They  was  all  tired  and  weary  of  war; 
We'd  been  the  same  in  a  year  or  two  more, 
Still,  the  truth  stands,  that  of  all  at  the  front 
We  were  the  lads  pulled  the  victory  stunt. 
Doughboys,  marines,  fresh  from  over  the  foam, 
We  started  Fritz  in  a  hurry  for  home. 

We  didn't  know 

He  was  a  foe 
Couldn't  be  smashed,  so  we  made  the  attack. 

Others,  it's  true 

Saw  the  job  through. 
But,  it  was  U5  that  had  started  him  back! 


[99] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


"I'LL  TELL  THE  WORLD" 

TWO  service  stripes,  two  wound  stripes,  too. 
Upon  my  sleeve. 
It's  beaucoup  war  that  I've  been  through; 

You  get  me,  Steve; 
Through  Belleau  an'  the  Argonne  drive 

Our  crowd  was  hurled. 
An'  me — I'm  pleased  that  I'm  alive, 
I'll  tell  the  world. 


Home  was  my  little  resting  spot 

Before  this  show 
Since  then  I've  learned  an  awful  lot 

An'  now  I  know. 
For  all  I've  seen  of  cities  gay 

An'  seas  that  swirled. 
The  place  for  me  is  U.  S.  A. 

I'll  tell  the  world! 


I  once  took  pride  in  bein'  tough. 

Tough  as  could  be. 
But  though  this  job  of  war  is  tough 

It's  softened  me, 
For  after  all  the  battle  stress 

Where  death  is  hurled 
You  learn  to  value  gentleness, 

I'll  tell  the  world. 

[lool 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


•TLL  TELL  THE  WORLD"  (continued) 
I've  faced  the  luck  of  war  with  men 

Of  many  ranks, 
I  wouldn't  face  that  hell  again 

For  beaucoup  francs. 
But  now  we've  finished  up  the   game 

An'  flags  is  furled, 
I'm  glad  we're  through — an'  glad  I  came, 

I'll  tell  the  world! 


i  >  »         J   >  > 


,,  •    ,    ^     3    J  >  >     >    » 


[lOl] 


BUDDY  BALLADS 


WONDERMENT 

JUST  now  I'm  thinkin'  when  I  get  home. 
There's  nothin*  under  the  sky's  blue  dome 
Will  ever  tempt  me  to  go  away, 
I'll  settle  down  with  a  sigh — an*  stay; 
But  say, 
I  wonder; 
After  a  while  when  things  grow  tame 
Maybip' I'll  miss  this  war-time  game, 

The  sound  of  the  guns  that  thunder, 
••  ^he  af>eti.life  an'  the  men  I  knew. 
An*  even  the  hardships  we  went  through! 

Just  now  I'm  wishin*  to  settle  down 

In  my  quiet  job  in  a  little  town 

Where  there  ain't  a  fret  an*  there  ain't  a  thrill 

An*  nothin*  happens,  an*  never  will; 

But  still, 

I  wonder; 
After  a  while,  when  the  country  store, 
An*  the  gang  that  circles  the  stove's  a  bore 

I  hardly  can  bear  up  under. 
Maybe  I'll  yawn  an*  stretch  an*  gaze 
Wistful,  into  the  distant  haze. 

Oh,  from  too  much  war  I  may  seek  release 
But  how  will  it  be  when  there's  too  much  peace? 
I'm  yearnin*  hard  for  the  home  folks,  now, 
[102] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


WONDERMENT  (continued) 

For  the  bed  that's  soft  an*  the  country  chow. 

But  how, 

I  wonder. 
Will  it  be  with  me  whoVe  rode  in  ships 
Where  the  U-boats  lurk  an*  the  deck-gun  rips 

The  salt  sea  winds  asunder? 
Will  home  existence  seem  flat  an'  stale. 
An*  me  a  prisoner,  locked  in  jail? 

When  you've  lived  an*  battled  an*  wandered  far 

Home  is  a  sort  of  a  beacon  star. 

It  leads  you  back,  an*  of  course  you  go, 

But  a  guy  gets  restless,  I've  come  to  know; 

An*  so 

I  wonder 
If  maybe  the  home  things  will  not  pall 
An*  I  be  hearin*  the  great  world  call. 

Call  in  a  voice  like  thunder; 
An',  like  a  prisoner,  breakin'  pen. 
Go  boundin*  out  on  the  trail  again! 


fml 


BUDDY  BALLADS 


THE  LESSON 

PRIVATE  DOWLIE,  careless  and  flip. 
Sloven  in  uniform,  loose  of  lip; 

Captain  spoke  to  him,  "Dowlie,  you 
Happen  to  be  just  one  of  few 

Native  Americans  I  have  got; 

The  rest  are  rather,  well — ^polyglot; 

Brave  and  loyal  and  strong  enough 
But  not  exactly  good  non-com  stuff. 

I  need  your  kind,  but  I  cannot  rate 

A  man  who's  careless,  who  won't  keep  straight. 

Who's  always  shooting  a  bimch  of  chin 
And  isn't  subject  to  discipline. 

You  ought  to  learn,  for  your  mind's  astute; 
That  it  isn't  officers  you  salute 

But  the  uniform,  and  it  should  occur 
To  man  like  you  are,  that  saying  "Sir" 

Is  nothing  cringing,  but  just  a  part 
Of  being  soldierly,  trim  and  smart. 
[104] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  LESSON  (continued) 

Private  Dowlie  considered  a  bit 

And  then  with  ready  and  Yankee  wit 

Answered,  "There's  sense,  'Sir,'  in  what  you  say," 
Saluted  smartly,  and  turned  away. 

A  few  weeks  after,  with  seven  men. 

The  Captain  stood  at  a  cross  roads,  when 

The  night  was  coming.   A  German  shell 
Landed  close  and  each  soldier  fell 

Flat  on  the  ground.  When  the  smoke  had  cleared 
The   Captain,  wobbly,   half-stunned,  upreared. 

And  started  calling  his  men  by  name; 
"Martin,"  "Kratzi."    The  answer  came 

"Safe,  Sir."    "Schaefer,"  "Tobenkin,"  "Black." 
"Safe  and  sound.  Sir,"  the  word  came  back. 

But  the  other  names  brought  no  reply 

And  the  Captain  sought  where  the  men  might  lie. 

He  groped  through  the  dimness,  till  he  found 
One  figure,  lifeless,  upon  the  ground. 

Another  one  near  it  barely  stirred; 
The  Captain  called,  and  in  answer  heard, 

"Corporal  Dowlie,  Sir."    "Are  you  hurt?" 
"I  think  I'll  die,  Sir,"  but  from  the  dirt 
Lios) 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  LESSON  (continued) 

He  rose  a  bit,  and  though  darkness  made 
His  figure  seem  like  a  moving  shade, 

He  summoned  his  strength  with  a  pain  acute 
And  brought  his  hand  to  a  smart  salute 

Then  crumpled  up,  and  the  captain  cried, 
For  "Corporal  Dowlie,  Sir,"  had  died. 

Died  the  way  that  a  soldier  should 

For  the  lesson  he  learned  was  learned— for  good! 


tioC] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  QUESTION 

CAME  here  to  fight — an'  we  did 
Came  here  to  win — an'  we  won; 
Put  Mr.  Boche  on  the  grid, 

Basted  him  till  he  was  done; 
We'd  have  stayed  ten  years — a  score — 

If  the  job  lasted  that  long 
But  there's  no  war  any  more 
So  we're  all  singin'  this  song: 

Oh  men,  say  when. 

When  do  we  start  for  home? 

When  will  our  ship 

Begin  her  trip 
Over  the  ocean  foam? 

Any  one  know 

When  we  will  go. 
Go  on  the  trail  for  home? 


Barrack  an'  Billet  an'  line 

All  of  us  thinkin'  alike, 
"Got  any  news,  any  sign 

Showin'  we're  goin'  to  hike — 
Hike  for  the  ship  sailin'  back? 

That's  what  we're  longin'  to  learn. 
When'll  they  tell  us  to  pack? 

When  do  we  start  to  return? 
[107] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  QUESTION  (continued) 

Oh  men,  say  when. 

When  do  we  leave  for  Home? 

The  war  is  fought 

An'  now  this  thought 
Is  in  each  soldier's  dome. 

Any  one  hear 

When  we  will  clear — 
Clear  out  of  France  for  Home? 

Now  that  there's  no  one  to  fight 
We  just  hang  round  an*  repeat, 

"Gosh,  to  be  sittin'  tonight 
Home,  with  real  dishes  to  eat; 

Home — that's  the  smoke,  not  a  tear- 
Still,  a  man's  fancies  will  roam 

Home  to  the  folks,  far  from  here^ — 
When  do  they  start  us  for  Home? 

Oh  men,  say  when 

When  do  we  beat  it  Home? 

Oh  Gosh,  to  see  Miss  Liberty 
A  shinin'  through  the  gloam. 

Say,  who  has  heard  the  latest  word? 
When  do  we  start  for  Home? 


[108I 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  TWO  CROSSES 

THE  White  Cross  of  Calvary,  it  leads  the  world  in 
war 
To  gain  the  true  and  perfect  love  that  Jesus  suffered 

for. 
Ahead  of  our  battalions  it  glows  with  wondrous  light 
That  marks  the  path  of  victory  we  follow  in  the  fight ; 
The  white  cross  of  Calvary  is  shrined  in  every  heart. 
But  the  red  cross  of  mercy — it  plays  an  equal  part, 
And  in  the  hell  of  pounding  guns  its  magic  shall  not 

cease. 
The   White   Cross,   the   Red   Cross   shall   bring   us 

through  to  peace. 


The  White  Cross  of  Calvary  shall  shed  a  glory  great 
On  those  v/ho  fight  for  faith  and  right  against  the 

hordes  of  hate. 
But  the  Red  Cross  of  mercy,  it  is  the  badge  they  wear 
Who  seek  and  save  the  broken  ones  amid  the  battle 

glare. 
The  sign  of  that  great  service  corps  which  fights  no 

foe  but  pain 
And  strives  for  human  salvage  in  the  waste  of  war's 

red  reign. 
And  brave  hearts  and  faint  hearts  may  know  the 

beauty  of 
The  White  Cross  of  Calvary,  the  Red  Cross  of  love. 

[109] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  TWO  CROSSES  (continued) 
The  White  Cross  of  Calvary  whereon  was  crucified 
The  Savior  of  Humanity,  a  spear  mark  in  his  side, 
Shall  be  our  blessed  guerdon,  but  there's  the  Cross 

of  Red 
(Aye,  tinged  with  blood  compassionate  our  Lord  and 

Master  shed) 
And  it  shall  lift  the  fallen  and  bear  them  back  again 
And  with  a  strange  new  wizardry  rebuild  them  into 

men. 
In  all  the  roar  of  conflict  above  the  crimson  sod 
The  White  Cross  and  Red  Cross  shall  do  the  work  of 

Godl 


[no] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  BIG  ADVANCE 

/^  LIGHT  your  pipe  up,  Buddy, 
^^         And  fasten  on  your  pack; 
The  footing  may  be  muddy 

Along  our  forward  track. 
But  we  should  worry  when  we  see 

What  we  are  going  for ; 
We're  marchin*  into  Germany, 

We've  won  the  blooming  war. 

There  are  no  shells  to  meet  us 

And  our  own  guns  are  dumb; 
No  m.  g.  nests  will  greet  us 

With  bullets  as  we  come ; 
Our  hobnails  rasp,  our  belts  all  creak. 

We  slog  past  plain  and  hill; 
No  H.  E.'s  "crump,"  no  "two  tens"  shriek, 

God,  but  the  air  is  still. 

Say,  this  is  diff'rent,  Buddy, 

Than  just  a  while  ago 
When  "forward"  meant  a  bloody 

And  damned  unhealthy  show. 
With  Boches  round  the  scenery 

By  squad,  division,  corps ; 
But  now,  we're  off  to  Germany, 

We've  won  the  blooming  war. 
[Ill] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  BIG  ADVANCE    (continued) 

And  those  weVe  left  behind  us 

Upon  the  fields  of  France 
Perhaps  they'll  somehow  find  us 

And  march  in  our  advance, 
The  Grand  Commander  up  above 

If  what  we're  taught  is  true 
Will  help  them  see  the  glory  of 

The  thing  they  helped  to  do. 

WeVe  marched  in  wartime,  Buddy, 

In  dark  and  cold  and  damp. 
But  now  our  fires  are  ruddy 

Wherever  we  encamp ; 
This  the  time  we've  fought  to  see 

The  thing  we  came  here  for. 
We're  off,  we're  off  to  Germany, 

We've  won  the  blooming  war. 


[!"] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


SPECULATION 

WHEN  the  war  is  over  an*  we  can  sail 
With  our  lights  a-shinin'  free, 
An*  we  needn't  watch  fer  a  U-boat's  trail 

Slinkin'  under  the  sea ; 
When  we  kin  steam  at  an  easy  lope 

An'  the  decks  are  clear  of  guns 
With  never  a  sign  of  a  periscope 
Along  o'  the  track  we  runs; 

I'm  thinkin'  at  first  we'll  find  it  great 

With  never  a  convoy  near, 
To  plod  along  on  a  course  that's  straight 

With  nary  a  sub  to  fear. 
Yet,  after  playin'  this  war-time  game 

Of  submarine  peek-a-boo, 
I'm  wonderin'  won't  we  find  it  tame 

With  nothin'  like  that  to  do? 


Yes,  after  drawin'  our  every  breath 

In  the  perils  that  we  has  known, 
An*  playin*  at  hide  an*  seek  with  death 

In  the  thick  of  the  danger  zone. 
Where  a  Hun  torpedo  may  start  to  race 

A-streakin'  it  for  our  hull — 
Well,  after  havin*  them  things  to  face. 

Won't  peace  seem  a  leetle  dull? 
[113] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


SPECULATION  (continued) 

Oh,  I'll  be  glad  when  it  comes,  all  right. 

An'  there  isn't  no  need  to  ride, 
With  the  gunner's  mate  at  the  five-inch  sight 

An'  the  boats  swung  overside. 
But  I'm  thinkin'  now,  as  a  feller  will, 

That  when  days  of  peace  come  back. 
We'll  be  missin'  some  of  the  old-time  thrill 

That  we  knew  on  the  U-boat  track! 


rii4i 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


PRIDE 

THE  nearest  I  got  to  the  front  in  France 
Was  bakin'  the  army  bread  at  Tours, 
With  a  baker's  apron  over  my  pants, 

Say,  I  was  a  hero  soldier,  sure. 
I  done  a  year  in  the  S.O.S. 

An'  men  from  the  front  they  held  the  view. 
That  I  was  a  kind  of  a  louse ;  I  guess 
That  I  was  inclined  to  think  so,  too! 

Over  in  France  I  was  just  a  worm 

To  the  boys  who  came  from  the  blazin'  line, 
I  used  to  feel  that  I  oughta  squirm 

Outa  their  sight  to  some  hole  of  mine; 
But  now,  I'm  Home,  an'  my  sleeve  is  bright 

With  two  gold  stripes,  an'  they  sure  look  gay 
Compared  to  the  silver  ones,  all  right. 

Of  guys  who  never  left  U,  S.  A. 

Say,  when  youVe  been  for  a  year  or  so 

Where  all  you  get  is  the  glassy  eye, 
It  sure  is  bully,  believe  me,  bo, 

To  have  it  over  some  other  guy; 
My  chest  swells  up,  an'  my  shoulders  square. 

Whenever  these  silver-stripers  pass 
For  the  service  chevrons  from  Over  There 

Are  Class;  here.  Buddy,  you  get  me— Class  I 

[lis] 


BUDDY   BALLADS 


THE  RETURN 

WHEN  we  come  rolling  home  again  across  the 
ocean  foam  again 
Away  from  muddy  trenches  and  the  noise  and  smell 
of  war. 
Without  that  job  to  weary  us  we  won't  be  stern  and 
serious 
And  noble-looking  heroes  like  some  folks  are  plan- 
ning for ; 
We're  mostly  young  and  vigorous  and  after  labors 
rigorous 
We'll  sure  be  good  and  ready  for  a  frolic  or  a 
dance, 
We've  learned  from  war,  no  doubt  of  it,  but  when 
we're  safely  out  of  it 
At  heart  we'll  be  about  the  same  as  when  we  sailed 
for  France! 


We've  led  a  life  adventurous  and  only  glooms  will 
censure  us 
If,  back  from  facing  hate  and  death  through  weary 
days  and  nights 
Where  heavy  shells  were  battering  amid  a  strain 
nerve-shattering. 
We're  hungry  for  the  glamor  of  the  laughter  and 
the  lights. 
You  think  that  we've  been  taught  a  lot?   Well,  it  is 
true  we've  thought  a  lot, 
[ii6] 


BUDDY    BALLADS 


THE  RETURN  (continued) 

But   not   so   much   of   sterner   things,   we've    had 
enough  of  those; 
WeVe  dreamed  of  sweethearts  beautiful  and  mothers 
dear  and  dutiful, 
But  pondered  most  on  home-made  pies,  good  din- 
ners, baths  and  shows ! 

When  we  come  rolling  home  again  to  tread  our  native 
loam  again 
We  won't  be  greatly  different  from  when  we  went 
away. 
You'll  find  some  little  change  in  us,  but  nothing  very 
strange  in  us; 
We'll  still  be  joyous  spendthrifts  who  are  strong 
for  fun  and  play. 
But  by  the  pals  who're  lost  to  us  and  war's  tremen- 
dous cost  to  us. 
By  all  we've  seen  and  all  we've  known  and  all  the 
work  we've  wrought. 
When  we  come  gaily  back  again  upon  the  homeward 
track  again 
God  help  the  men  who  are  not  true  to  all  for  which 
we  fought! 


tiiTl 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AKi     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25    CENTS 

OVERDUE. 


APR     2  1933 
JUL    29  1940 

APR  30  1945 

8  Apr '49  Ei 

^Jan521«CB 
HDec'SlLU 


REC'D  LD 

OCT  ll '65 -4  PM 


J 


LD  21-50rw-l,'33 


Y,C  i  02607 


UNIVERSITY  r#  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


